


Negligence

by embulalia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Hannibal is lowkey a mess, M/M, Murder Family, Tag list subject to change, Will is very very pissed, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-05-21 18:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14920245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embulalia/pseuds/embulalia
Summary: After being dismissed entirely by Dr Sutcliffe, Will seeks out a second opinion regarding his degrading health—without Hannibal present. He receives a diagnosis. Hannibal receives a reality check.An AU where Will's encephalitis is treated before Hannibal has the chance to put him behind bars.





	1. In Which Will Graham Receives Much Needed Medical Treatment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [softhan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/softhan/gifts).



> Big thanks to @julysalad on tumblr for providing a Russian translation to this fic, which can be found [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7047939)!

“We didn’t find anything abnormal,” said Dr Sutcliffe to Will as they stood in his office, his stomach filling with acid and his headache raging on. 

“We didn’t find anything abnormal,” said Dr Sutcliffe to Will as he lay in bed restlessly, feeling as if he was going to dissolve and be absorbed into the bedsheets. 

“We didn’t find anything abnormal,” said Dr Sutcliffe to Will as he woke from a daze in the middle of the street with no idea how he got there, his feet sore and his head spinning. 

“We didn’t find anything abnormal,” said Dr Sutcliffe to Will as he snapped out of a nightmare in a puddle of sweat and urine, horrified that his dreams had become bad enough to revoke his bladder control.

“We didn’t find anything abnormal,” said Dr Sutcliffe to Will as he quietly scheduled an appointment with a second neurologist, this one in Virginia, without telling anyone about it.

 

“This is one of the most advanced cases of encephalitis I have seen in a long time,” said this second neurologist as she compared Will’s blood work, MRI scans, and listed symptoms with an incredulous expression. “Why didn’t you see anyone sooner?”

“I did,” Will said quietly, trying to absorb several realizations at once.

“They must have been an incredibly negligent neurologist,” she said with a frown. 

“I’m starting to realize that,” Will muttered. 

He would continue to realize it as the full extent of his condition’s severity became clear to him. He was hospitalized immediately, and swept along in a rigorous treatment cycle that knocked him out for weeks. He did not tell Dr Lecter where he had gone. He did not tell Jack where he had gone. He didn’t even tell Alana (although he did ask her to watch his dogs during his absence). He sent a brief email to his employer at the Academy, informing her of his sick leave, and retreated into the safety of seclusion as he recovered. 

All of his difficulties, all of the pain and fear and misery, were all because his brain was so severely inflamed that he had to be put into a medically induced coma to manage it. “Is there any way this could have been missed?” he asked his neurologist one day.

“If even the most basic of testing was done, no certified neurologist would miss this diagnosis,” she informed him as she checked his chart. He did not tell her that this was nowhere near as reassuring as she thought it would be. 

How do you come to terms with the fact that someone you liked, someone you trusted, someone you were genuinely attracted to, intentionally lied to you about your health and worsened your condition? It’s a question he has been asking himself for weeks, and even now, as he sits in the front seat of his car, he has no good answer. It’s such a ridiculous betrayal that he has no idea what to think about it. What would drive Dr Lecter to do something like that? What could he possibly stand to gain?

Will exhales shakily as he turns off the engine. He had arrived at his home almost ten minutes ago, and then just sat idling in the driveway. After his discharge that morning, a feeling of unease had settled over him that persists even now. He still has no idea what happened, nor does he have a clue as to what will happen from here. He opens the car door and steps out onto the pavement. Life goes on, and he will have to go on with it, one way or another. 

Reuniting with the dogs eases his worries for a few minutes. It’s difficult to be upset when seven bundles of energetic fluff are licking and sniffling and nudging him, reminding him that love does still exist in this world. But as soon as they have settled, he’s back to thinking.

He doesn’t know very much about what happened, or why. He isn’t even entirely sure what he’s feeling. But he’s angry, he knows that much. Furious, even. 

He emails Jack to let him know that his time off has ended. Jack sends back some well wishes and asks if he will be able to return to casework right away, that they have been needing him while he was gone. Will doesn’t respond. 

He emails Alana to let her know that his time away has ended. She sends back some friendly concern, a few dog pictures she took while watching them, and asks what was wrong. He says that they can talk about it later.

He emails Abigail to let her know that he would like to see her again soon. She texts him to say that no one uses email anymore. Then she asks if he’s okay. He tells her that he is.

He says nothing to Dr Lecter. 

He does not read the twelve emails Dr Lecter sent him while he was in the hospital, although he does glance through the subject lines: “Reminder About My 24 Hour Cancellation Policy”, “Following Up About Our Appointment for Tomorrow”, “If You Have Begun to Use a Different Email Address I Would Appreciate an Update”, “Jack Informed Me You Are On Sick Leave”, “Following Up re: Sick Leave”, “I Tried to Bring You Soup but You Were Not Home”, “Please Inform Me When You Are in Better Sorts.” Will is tempted to read growing desperation into them. But he knows better than that. Dr Lecter would not worry for his wellbeing, no. He actively made it worse. 

He plays with his dogs and thinks. He thinks about what the doctors had told him. That he had been having seizures for weeks, that many of his experiences of losing time were likely connected to those seizures. That his somnambulism could have gotten him killed quite easily. That the inflammation could potentially have caused serious damage to his brain had it gone untreated for much longer. That he was incredibly lucky to have responded as well to treatment as he did. That there was absolutely no way that any neurologist could have missed this.

Absolutely no way.

He dreams of Hannibal—a recurring theme as of late. Hannibal holding him underwater, overpowering his desperate flailing. Smiling down at him, his face distorted by the surface of the water. Will is drowning, and Hannibal will not help him. 

But he wakes up still in his bed instead of out in the street. He is sweaty, but not enough to leave puddles. His head does not ache. He feels better than he has in months. 

His students are thrilled to see him when he walks into class that morning. They applaud his arrival, making him blush furiously and stammer. They pester him with questions about where he has been and if he is feeling better now, questions to which he gives exclusively brief, clipped answers before insisting that they begin the lecture. Jack appears in the doorway about halfway through, but to Will’s absolute shock, he waits until the end of the class period to pull him aside.

“Thank you for not interrupting,” Will says, apologetically waving away the students that attempt to come speak to him.

“I was curious what you would be talking about on your first day back,” Jack tells him, resting his hands on his hips in his typical, dominating stance. “Thought it might be some clue as to where you’d gone.”

Will raises his brows and shakes his head. “No, just… following the curriculum.” He blinks, then registers the implication. He frowns. “I told you where I was.”

“No, you contacted the dean suddenly to say that you needed two weeks off for ‘sick leave,’ then sent me one email saying you were back,” Jack says, something almost accusatory in his tone. “Alana said you hadn’t told her much more than that either.”

“I-I was sick,” Will balks. He had assumed that the first thing Jack would do would be attempting to recruit him for another case; this is far from the greeting he had been preparing for. “I didn’t lie to you guys.”

“Then why weren’t you at home? She told me you had her dogsitting,” Jack steps slightly closer to Will, fixing him with an arresting stare. “If you needed time off from this job that badly, you could have just told me, Will.”

“I wasn’t at home because I was in the HOSPITAL, Jack!” Will hisses, not bothering to point out that even if he had asked for time off, Jack would have been unlikely to give him that break. “I had encephalitis, okay? That’s what was causing all those hallucinations. Extremely advanced, severe encephalitis.”

A certain satisfaction washes over Will as Jack steps back again, shock clear on his face. “Are you serious?” he asks.

“Yes, I’m serious.” Will huffs through his nose and folds his arms over his chest, leaning against his desk. The lecture hall has emptied out now, to his relief. “They said it was one of the most advanced cases they had ever seen.”

“But... you’re okay now?” Jack asks.

Will shrugs, looking down at the carpeted floor. “I think so,” he says carefully, “But… I’m trying to take it slow. Readjust carefully.” A bitter smile spreads across his face. “I got very used to living life with a melting brain.”

Jack furrows his brow. “So you aren’t hallucinating anymore?”

Will shakes his head. “Not as far as I know.”

“Well, that’s great,” Jack says, smiling. “I’m glad to hear it. Maybe that’ll make your job a little easier on you.”

Unlikely, thinks Will. “Maybe,” says Will. 

“Have you spoken to Dr Lecter yet?” Jack asks, and Will stiffens. He grits his teeth. “I think he was quite worried about you, you know,” Jack adds, not noticing Will’s distress, “He said something about wanting to bring you warm soup, but finding your house empty? I’m surprised you didn’t tell him where you were.”

“Jack,” Will says, his voice strained, “I don’t want to talk to Dr Lecter ever again.” He pronounces the name as if it tastes like garbage in his mouth. “It’s his fault.”

“What’s his fault? That you got sick?” Jack questions, confusion plain on his face.

“That I got THAT sick, yes,” Will says, digging his fingers into his arms. “He lied to me about it. Said I was fine when I wasn’t.”

Jack looks at him for a moment. And for that moment, Will imagines that this conversation will go the way he wants it to. That Jack will be shocked, and then furious. That he will suggest they storm right over to Lecter’s practice and arrest him for endangering his patients. 

The fantasy is shattered by a disbelieving little chuckle. 

“Will, come on now,” Jack says, shaking his head, “You know that’s not true.”

Will feels as if the floor beneath his feet has given way. He gapes at Jack, actually meeting his gaze for once because he needs to check for any sign that this is a cruel joke. The only thing he can read on his boss’s face is amusement, the dismissive sort that he saw back when he tried to argue against the name of the Evil Minds Museum. 

“I-It IS true, Jack,” Will says, straightening up, “There is absolutely no way he didn’t know about it!”

“What makes you so sure of that, Will?” Jack asks, and Will is certain that he almost rolled his eyes. 

“My n-neurologist TOLD me!” he cries, “They said that my case was s-so advanced that there was no way it could have been missed!” 

Jack shakes his head again. “How do you diagnose encephalitis?” he asks.

“They ran bloodwork and took an MRI of my head,” Will explains, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush, “The results were so incredibly obvious that they had me sent directly to the ER from there.”

Jack sighs. “Will, have you ever heard of a psychiatrist doing either of those things? Why would Hannibal run diagnostic tests on you?” 

Will could cry from the relief. There’s the point of confusion, there’s the reason he isn’t being listened to. He can still make Jack understand. “Th-that’s the thing! He took me to a neurologist himself! They ran the tests on me there, and then told me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me—!”

“Oh my god, Will, listen to yourself,” Jack cuts him off, gesturing for him to stop. “He took you to a neurologist because he was worried about you, and he happened to have picked a bad one. That’s not a crime.”

And the floor gives way once again. Will’s heart sinks. “You don’t understand, he was there while they ran the tests,” he tries to explain, but his resolve is withering. “I went to the second neurologist not even a week later; there’s no way I could go from having no visible brain swelling to swelling so severe that—”

“Will, I don’t want to hear any more about this,” Jack says harshly, “You’re accusing Hannibal of malicious malpractice, which I know he would never commit. You sound completely paranoid. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised. Of course no one would side with him when holding his word against Hannibal’s. He exhales shakily and rubs his eyes under his glasses, dislodging them and setting them askew. “I’m better than I was,” he says in a quiet, tense voice. 

“Maybe we’ll wait a few days before bringing you back into the field,” Jack says, probably thinking that’s an incredibly lenient and generous allowance. “And you really should go talk to Hannibal. He was worried about you.”

As Jack walks away, Will sighs and sinks down in the chair behind the desk. He needs to clear out of here within the next five minutes so the next professor can have it, which gives him a few moments to regather himself. His head still does not ache, but he doesn’t feel particularly okay. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time and notices a notification about a new email. Another one from Hannibal. “Abigail Told Me You’re Feeling Better,” says the subject line. He deletes it without opening it.

 

~

 

Hannibal is not used to feeling snubbed. People do not blow him off, not without sending extravagant apologies and extensive explanations for what held them up. It’s basic courtesy to inform someone when you will be unable to make a meeting you scheduled with them. And Hannibal takes care to surround himself with the sort of people who would provide him with that basic courtesy.

And yet, he finds himself staring at his email inbox, awaiting a response that refuses to come. He checks his sent folder one more time, just to make sure that his message went through. It certainly did. So did the countless others he has sent—to Will’s normal email, to his school email, to several email addresses belonging to William Grahams he has never met—just in case Will neglected to inform him of an address change. 

By all accounts, this should simply annoy him. He should write Will off as not worth bothering with, perhaps tuck his name into his rolodex, and move on with his life. But that does not feel like an appropriate reaction to this, for reasons he cannot fathom. 

He phones Abigail, because he is not sure what else to do. She sounds slightly out of breath when she picks up. 

“Abigail? Are you doing something?” he asks, momentarily distracted from his distress.

“Yeah, I’m packing up my stuff,” she says, “They’re talking about releasing me, remember?”

“Yes, of course,” he says, tapping his fingers on the polished surface of his desk, “Have you given any further thought to my offer?”

She sighs, and he can easily picture her rolling her eyes. “Yes, Hannibal, I have,” she says, “And it’s still an ‘I’m not sure.’” She pauses, and he lets her take her time to before continuing her thought. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, I’m just… not sure that’s what I want yet.”

“Well, don’t hesitate to tell me if you do come to a decision,” he tells her warmly, “There is always a space for you in my home.”

“I know, I know,” she says, warmth clear in her own voice. Then, she clears her throat. “But that’s not what you phoned about, right?”

“Yes, you’re correct,” he says, and he is about to explain his true intentions, but she beats him to it.

“Is it about Will?”

“Oh, clever girl,” he says, chuckling.

“Not really. Anyone could’ve guessed that.”

He doesn’t think that’s true, but does not press her on it. “I just wanted to make sure that Will did not use an unusual email address to contact you,” he says, refreshing his inbox one more time. “He still has not responded to me.”

“No, it was just his normal one I’m pretty sure,” she says, “I did text him though. Maybe you should try that.”

“I have left him voicemails on both his cellphone and his work phone. I cannot imagine him responding to me in text if he would not phone me.”

“It was just a suggestion.” She pauses again. “Do you have any idea why he’s ignoring you?”

Hannibal lets out the smallest of sighs. He has given that matter quite a bit of thought and has found it difficult to come up with reasonable explanations. Assumedly, Will’s sick leave is somehow connected to his encephalitis. In fact, after he had missed his third consecutive appointment, Hannibal began to wonder if he had been gravely injured as a result of his sleepwalking, or if he had seized at an inopportune moment. But then he heard from both Jack and Alana that they had been told he was away on a nonspecific sick leave, and his worst worries were assuaged. That left behind confusion, which has only grown worse as Will refuses to acknowledge him. 

“I’m afraid not,” he says, the tapping of his fingers gaining speed. “I would appreciate it very much if you would tell him that I am worried about him.”

“Sure, I can do that,” she says.

“Who are you talking to, Abigail?” asks a familiar voice from the background.

“Hannibal,” she says, her voice changing tones as she speaks away from the receiver. It returns to normal when she explains, “Sorry, Alana is here helping me pack.”

“Not a problem at all,” he assures. “Please do tell her that I appreciate her helping you.”

“I can ask her about Will for you if you want,” Abigail offers.

Hannibal’s heart jumps at the thought, but he purses his lips and says, “I think it would be better if I spoke to her about that myself.”

“Do you want me to put her on?”

“Actually, yes, if she wouldn’t mind, I would appreciate that very much.”

“Okay,” Abigail chirps, and then he hears only the sound of movement for a few moments. 

“Hey, Hannibal,” Alana says after the phone has changed hands. “What did you want to know about Will? I haven’t gotten the chance to speak with him yet, so I don’t have much to tell you.”

“Straight to the point, I see?” he remarks.

“Well, we are in the middle of something,” Alana reminds him, “Not that I mind talking to you, because I don’t. But I think we probably shouldn’t waste too much time.”

“That is certainly reasonable.” He picks up a pen from his desk and twiddles it between his fingers, leaning back in his chair. “I wanted to ask you if Will had used an unusual email address to contact you.”

“No, he didn’t. Why?” she asks, confused.

“Because he has yet to respond to any of my attempts at contacting him,” Hannibal says with a sigh, watching light glint off the pen’s metal body as he fiddles with it. 

The confusion in her tone becomes more pronounced. “What? Really? Why would he not?”

“I was hoping you might be able to help me figure that out.”

She hums thoughtfully. “I suppose I could try to get ahold of him tomorrow? He should be in teaching as far as I know.” A thought seems to occur to her suddenly, and she adds, “Why don’t you ask Jack? He might have seen Will today.”

Hannibal frowns and sits up a little straighter. “You mean to tell me that he went in to work today?” he asks.

“As far as I know, yes,” Alana says, “He cares about his students, so I can’t imagine that he wouldn’t have.”

“I see,” he says, setting the pen back down. He finds himself hurt by the implication. Will cares about his students, and so he would return to them at first opportunity. He refreshes his inbox yet again. 

“I’ll try to talk to him tomorrow,” Alana promises.

“Thank you, Alana,” Hannibal sighs, and they both hang up. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoyed! In case you're curious, the endgame for this fic is Abigail living and the murder family happily gallivanting off together to partake in Highly Questionable But Sweet Domesticity. It might get a bit messy before they get there though. Oh well, what can you do
> 
> Happy (early) birthday, Wryder!!!


	2. In Which a Confrontation Occurs

Will dreams of Hannibal. 

He has been dreaming of Hannibal for weeks now, ever since his first night spent in the hospital. Nightmares, mostly, but not exclusively. It would be easier if they were exclusive. Every dream of Hannibal looming over him, his fingers tangled in Will’s sopping wet hair as he holds his head under water, his smiling face distorted by the surface between them as impossibly bright lights flash rapidly, burning his eyes… every dream of Hannibal drowning him is horrifying, startling, and deeply unpleasant. He snaps awake from them in a panic and has to take a moment to gain his bearings, to shake free the feeling of a fist in his curls and water in his nose. To breathe fast, rattling breaths until he knows for certain that he still can. 

He hates the nightmares. But he hates the ones that aren’t nightmares far more.

It has only happened twice, but twice is already far too many times. Instead of a harsh hand forcing him to stay underwater, he feels a gentle caress over the curve of his jaw, up his forehead to card through his hair with the affection of a lover. Hannibal’s face close to his, close enough that he can feel the doctor’s hot breath against his lips, smell the expensive wine lingering on it. Leaning forward to close the gap, and finding that he can taste that expensive wine on his tongue as well. 

He doesn’t understand why he would dream of this. He doesn’t understand why he’s so fundamentally fucked up that his mind would force him to fantasize about kissing this man even after facing death because of him. He wakes up from those dreams sweaty and aroused and furious. Furious at Hannibal, furious at himself, furious that he has to be in this situation at all. 

He did not dream of Hannibal romantically this time, but that doesn’t even matter. After the initial panic of his nightly drowning has subsided, and he is certain that he still lays on solid land, his mind brings forth the sensation of Hannibal’s lips against his own anyway. He yanks the pillow out from under his sweaty head and whips it across the room, startling his dogs. 

The dogs, right. They serve as useful distraction. He sluggishly gets to his feet and gives each of them a pet, whispering apologies for scaring them. They forgive him easily, flicking their tongues over his legs and fingers. The next ten minutes pass in a haze as he lets himself slip into a sleepy trance of routine. He serves them their breakfasts, makes sure each of them have begun to eat, and brews himself a coffee. He sips it while surveying his cupboards, trying to come up with something he’ll be able to stomach. That has been surprisingly easy as of late, the result of his improved health no doubt. He sticks some bread into his toaster oven and drifts out of the kitchen to get dressed. By the time he has fastened his belt and smoothed out his sweater, his toast is ready for him. He eats one slice dry and the other slathered in raspberry jam. 

Routine is safe, it’s easy. It lets him distance himself from the turmoil of his dreams. He sips his coffee and watches the dogs mill about, waiting for him to let them loose. His phone chirps in his pocket.

His coffee mug is empty and the dogs’ impatience is well tested, so he opens the front door for them and watches them tumble out in a heap. They yap at each other and romp around his property. It makes him smile.

The notification is a text from Abigail. That also makes him smile.

_ Are you teaching today? _

He leans against the side of his house, the crisp air chilly but not unpleasant against his skin.  _ Yes _ , he responds,  _ School still runs all through the week even in post grad studies. _

_ That sucks. The school all week thing I mean. I hoped that teachers would ease up after you’ve already graduated more than once _ . 

He snickers and folds his arms over his chest, getting himself comfortable. He still has a good five minutes to let the dogs work off their early morning energy before he needs to head out.  _ Sorry. There’s no rest for a student.  _ He pauses, then adds, _ If it makes you feel better, there’s no rest for teachers either. _

The bubble denoting her typing appears, and lingers for a moment. He lazily flicks his gaze between the screen of his phone and his playing dogs. 

_ Are you sure you’re feeling better? _

The question makes him pause for a moment. He furrows his brow as he types.  _ Why do you ask? _

_ I dunno, just had a feeling. You could ask for more time off if you weren’t. _

Will scoffs softly.  _ You haven’t met Jack Crawford, have you? _

There’s another pause while she types. 

_ Hannibal thinks you’re ignoring him. _

Will’s good mood evaporates. He does not move to respond. 

_ Are you? _ Abigail asks after a minute passes.

Will shakes his head and whistles to his dogs. Time to go. He corals them all indoors, gives each of them another quick pet, asks them to behave, and gathers up his messenger bag. He locks all four of the locks on his front door and hurries to his car, dumping the bag in the passenger seat. His phone buzzes again.

_ Will? _

He grimaces. It’s not her fault. He shouldn’t just ignore her.  _ Sorry, Abigail, I need to drive to work. We can talk later, okay? _

He doesn’t wait to see her response. 

  
  


Today, it’s Alana that appears in the doorway during his lecture. He flashes her a quick smile without pausing his sentence, and she returns it, leaning against the wall and watching. She joins his students in polite applause at the end of the period, then waits for them all to dissipate before approaching him.

“It’s great to see you again,” she says, her voice warm and genuine.

“Thanks,” he says, gathering up his papers. “It’s nice to see you too.”

She draws closer, standing at the edge of the desk and watching him tuck his stuff into his bag. “Word on the street is that you had encephalitis,” she says, the warmth still there even as she gently prods for information. Her concern is genuine, and it makes Will’s heart sink ever so slightly.

“Does that mean that Jack told you himself, or that people are actually talking about it?” he asks as he fastens the clasps of his bag.

“Jack told me,” she assures. “He wouldn’t spread gossip about you, don’t worry.”

He nods and shoulders the bag. “My next class isn’t for a half hour,” he says. “Do you have someplace to be?”

“Not yet,” she says, “I would love it if we could get a coffee and catch up.”

Will smiles in spite of himself. “That sounds nice.”

The coffee place on campus is hardly the pinnacle of quality, but it does the job. They each buy themselves a drink, and Alana picks up a chocolate muffin as well. They settle at a small table by the window, which Will dutifully stares out of instead of looking at her.

“So,” she says, peeling the paper away from her snack. “Encephalitis?”

Will nods. “Autoimmune,” he says. “Not the contagious type.”

“Good,” she says, taking a moment to imagine how disastrous it would have been if it were the contagious type. She grimaces. “So that would explain away a lot of the difficulties you were having, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah. That’s what they told me.” He sips his coffee, the second cup in three hours, and burns the tip of his tongue on it. “Apparently, most of my lost time probably coincided with seizures.”

“Jesus, Will,” she says, stunned. “That’s really bad. You were still driving.”

“I know. Could’ve died. They told me that, too.”

Alana sighs, looking down into her food. “I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible,” she says, her voice soft. “I wish I could have seen the signs.”

Will glances towards her and feels a stab of guilt for her sadness. He shakes his head. “You couldn’t have.” He pauses, then amends, “W… wouldn’t have. It must have just looked like I was finally starting to lose it.” He laughs mirthlessly. “And that’s not exactly going to come as a surprise, I know.”

“Will, that’s not fair to you,” she insists. “You were in danger, and you deserved to be taken seriously about it.”

Will takes another sip of his coffee. It’s no longer too hot, but he can still feel the heat against his burned tongue. “Thanks,” he says, because he isn’t sure what else to say. 

A moment of silence settles between them before Alana takes a breath and breaks it. “Have you talked to Hannibal about all of this yet?” she asks.

Perhaps he should have seen this coming. A cloud passes over his face and he grits his teeth. “No,” he says shortly.

“Why haven’t you?”

Will leans back in his chair, his shoulders drawing upward. “I don’t want to speak with him.”

Alana frowns. “What? Why not? He’s very worried about you, you know. It’s not very fair of you to ignore him.”

Will can’t stop the sneer that tugs at his lips. “It wasn’t very fair of him to lie to me about my health, either.”

“Lie about your health?” she questions. “Will, what are you talking about?”

He meets her gaze for a moment before his eyes flick away again. He tightens his grip on the paper cup in his hand. “He knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I was sick.” He swallows hard before spitting out, “He knew that something was wrong with me and told me there wasn’t. He knew I was having seizures, that I was losing time, that I was sleepwalking into the street in the middle of the night—”

“Will, Will, hang on,” Alana cuts him off, leaning forward. She looks and sounds deeply concerned, which fuels a small amount of hope in Will’s chest even as she interrupts him. Perhaps she will understand, perhaps she will believe him. “What do you mean ‘he knew’? How do you know that?”

“I told him about most if it,” Will explains tensely, “I told him about every one of my symptoms as they happened. I told him something was wrong, that this was definitely not normal for me.” He swallows. “I know what type of crazy I am, and that wasn’t it,” he says, remembering when he said the same thing to Doctor Lecter. 

Alana watches him quietly, her expression measured. Will takes that to mean she is waiting for more.

“I told him everything, Alana,” he continues. “He knew exactly what was happening to me. I lost time at his office; that must mean I had seizures in front of him too.” The memory of the bright, fast, flashing lights from his dreams comes to mind. “I… I th-think he might have been… causing them too.”

“Stop,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “Will, listen to yourself. Do you hear what you’re saying? You’re accusing Hannibal of something very, very serious.”

“I know.”

“Do you actually, really think that he would do that to you?”

Will swallows, gritting his teeth again. His jaw aches from the pressure. “Yes.”

Alana is quiet, staring at him with an expression that’s difficult to read. But Will can tell what she’s feeling. Shock, disbelief, sadness, disappointment. She doesn’t believe him.

“Will… you’ve… been through something harrowing,” she says, her voice shifting into the delicacy only a psychiatrist could use. “And it’s only natural to want to assign blame for it.”

Will stares down at the table between them. Her muffin sits forgotten. 

His lack of protest encourages her, and she carries on. “You need to understand that Hannibal cares about you. He has been so, so worried, Will. There’s no way that someone who cares that much could have caused something like this.”

Will shakes his head a little, laughing again. “He doesn’t care, Alana.”

“Yes, he does,” she insists, starting to reach across the table. She pauses halfway and draws her hand back. “He has been asking everyone if they’ve heard from you, if you’re alright. That’s not something that someone who wanted to hurt you would do.”

Will sighs through his nose, deflating. It sure doesn’t seem like the action of someone who wants to hurt him. But it is. The whole situation is so deeply contradictory that Will himself has trouble understanding it, but he knows that it’s true. He knows it.

“He took me to see someone, Alana,” Will says, still trying to persuade her even though he knows the cause is lost. 

“See? He wanted to help you, Will!”

“No, you don’t understand. He was there during the testing. He knew that I was sick, he saw it himself. And he lied about it.”

Alana looks so very sad, and some part of Will wants to revoke the accusation just so he won’t have to put her in this situation. “Will… encephalitis is notoriously difficult to read on an MRI… It’s unfortunate that it was missed, but that doesn’t mean something malicious was going on.”

Will shakes his head. He should just give in and let it go, but he so desperately wants someone to believe him. Just one person. “I saw the second neurologist not even a week later, Alana, and it was so bad that I was rushed to the ER. There’s no way it advanced that much in just a few days. He knew, there was no way he didn’t know.”

Alana tries to meet his gaze, but he avoids it carefully. He sees her wilt through his peripheral vision, and can’t help but feel like an asshole for it. “This is difficult for you, I know it is. And maybe… someone to blame is what you need right now.” She pauses to choose her words carefully. “But I really, really hope you will consider putting it aside enough to at least talk to him. Honestly, he is so worried about you, Will.”

Will stays still and quiet for a moment, running the conversation back through his head. There wasn’t much he could have done differently. He probably never stood a chance. She studied under Hannibal and has known and trusted him for a hell of a lot longer than she has known Will. And she never had much good reason to trust him. He swallows hard and gathers up his stuff. 

“Will, I’m really glad you’re doing better,” Alana says. She’s completely sincere, and that almost makes it worse. Her concern and care are genuine, and still she cannot take him at his word. 

“Thank you,” he says, adjusting the strap of his bag and taking another sip of his coffee. When he lowers it from his mouth, he flashes her a lopsided smile. “You have no idea what it means to me,” he says. He turns to leave before he can see the concerned pursing of her lips.

 

~

 

Hannibal does not like feeling worried. He leads a relatively carefree life, with his needs more than met and his collection of luxuries well cultivated. Lesser artists than he would perhaps worry about their craft being uncovered, but he has never had much cause for concern. He knows how to play this game, and he plays it very well. He is untouchable.

And yet, as he surveys his wine cellar for an appropriate vintage to share with this evening’s company, he finds himself experiencing something like worry. Will has still made no move to contact him, or even just to respond to the contact Hannibal has extended. Two full days out of the hospital is more than enough time for the man to check his email; there is no doubt that this is an intentional move on Will’s part. 

He has given it yet more thought, and still he struggles to understand why this would be happening. Even if Will’s condition had been discovered and treated (which, as far as Hannibal can tell, is the most likely possibility), there would surely be no reason for Will to blame Hannibal for it. And yet, why else would Will be ignoring him so thoroughly? What has Hannibal done to anger the man? For the life of him, he cannot think of anything.

But Alana said Jack may have spoken with him, so Hannibal will speak with Jack. He selects a particularly spicy Syrah and barely manages to lock up his cellar before the doorbell chimes. Hannibal sets the bottle down on a table by the hearth and quickly rights his shirt as he hurries to his foyer.

“Good evening,” he says as he opens the door to his guest. Jack smiles at him and steps in when Hannibal gives him space to do so. 

“Good evening, Doctor Lecter,” he says as Hannibal takes his coat from him. He looks his host up and down and asks, “Long day?”

Hannibal raises a brow. “Why do you ask?” He hangs his coat for him and leads him into the sitting room. 

“You usually invite me to dinner and wine, not just wine,” he explains, taking a seat in the chair Hannibal indicates to him. 

“I suppose you could say I have kept busy.” Hannibal uncorks the bottle and pours each of them a glass, then sits beside Jack. He gently swirls his glass, watching the legs dribble down the sides. “I’ve been evaluating some records of mine. I have a few errands to run in the near future,” he says, breathing in a long whiff of his wine before finally taking a sip. The flavour sits heavy in his mouth. Perhaps it’s a bit stronger than he would have preferred this evening. He takes another sip anyway.

“Errands, eh?” Jack says, sniffing his own glass and taking a sip. “Mm, this is nice.”

“It was recommended to me by a sommelier at a restaurant I went to recently,” Hannibal says, giving it another swirl. “If you would like, you may take the bottle home with you.”

“Do you not like it?”

“I have no qualms with it,” Hannibal says. “But I do have a few more in my cellar, and no need to keep this one. Consider it a gift for Bella.”

“Thank you,” he says, and Hannibal is not blind to the slight downturn of his mood. Jack sighs and sinks a little further into his chair. “She’ll like it.”

“I thought she might.”

They sit quietly and watch the fireplace, flickering yellow light illuminating each of their faces. 

“Will is back at work,” Jack remarks. Hannibal masks the way he perks to attention by getting to his feet and giving the fire an unnecessary prod.

“Casework, so soon?” he asks, watching the sharp point of his poker heat up.

Jack shakes his head, a gesture Hannibal catches through his peripheral vision. “No, no, he seemed like he needed a few days before I brought him back into that,” he says, “Although I hope he feels up to it soon. We’ve hit a dead end on the Ripper case without his insight.”

Hannibal swallows down a grin. “Try not to push him too hard,” he says, his tone carefully schooled into gentle concern. “He might need a fair amount of rest before he feels well enough to return to such strenuous work.”

“Well, unfortunately, we really need him,” Jack says, a dismissive smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Can’t quite help that he’s the best at what he does, and that what he does is very important.”

Hannibal returns to his seat and picks his wine glass back up. Perhaps he grips the stem a bit too tightly, but he corrects the error before it has the chance to shatter in his hand. “I haven’t heard from him yet,” he admits, a touch of genuine despondency slipping into his tone. 

“Really?” Jack asks, looking over at him. 

“Really,” says Hannibal with a sigh. He takes another sip and decides that the wine being a bit strong is appropriate.

“I told him he should talk to you,” Jack says, frowning. “Although maybe it’s for the best that he hasn’t yet. I can give you a heads up this way.”

“What do you mean?” Hannibal asks. Although he is not always a fan of Jack, he does appreciate that he has taken this conversation in exactly the direction Hannibal needed it to go with little provocation. 

“Well… How do I tell you this…” Jack hesitates, running through his thoughts. “Before I say anything, you should know that it doesn’t necessarily mean much. Will can be… stubborn sometimes. It’s not exactly the first time he decided he had an objection to something and refused to hear out any other perspectives.”

Hannibal has heard about the Evil Minds Museum argument more than once, from both of them. It amuses him how sore of a topic it seems to be.

“I’m not sure what that has to do with me,” he says.

“I was getting there, I was getting there.” Jack takes another sip of wine, then, in the tone of a parent describing an unruly child, says, “He’s gotten it in his head that you knew he had contracted a life threatening illness and intentionally hid it from him.”

Hannibal goes still. So it was indeed connected to his condition. Perhaps that should not be a surprise to him. What is definitely a surprise, however, is the idea that Will would have caught on to the obfuscation so easily. He had always known the man was quite clever, but he had also assumed that the severity of his brain disease would dull his wit enough to keep Hannibal in the clear. He had underestimated Will’s deductive abilities, it seems. 

But as far as Jack is concerned, Hannibal didn't even know that Will was dangerously sick. “Hang on a moment,” he says, the shock and concern coming to his voice surprisingly easily. “Life threatening illness? What are you talking about?”

Jack sighs. “I did tell you that he was on sick leave, right?” Hannibal nods. “Well, by sick leave, he apparently meant ‘hospitalized for a severe case of encephalitis.’  You would think he would’ve considered that significant enough to tell us, but Will isn’t always on the same page as the rest of the world.”

“But he has recovered?” Hannibal prompts, setting down his glass of wine and leaning forward in his chair. 

“So he says. And he can’t be all wrong, or they wouldn’t have released him,” Jack says. “But I think he’s still pretty rattled. Enough so that he feels like he needs to blame someone for it.” He shakes his head. “Don’t take it to heart. Like I said, he can be stubborn.”

Hannibal looks from Jack to the fire, calculating his next words very carefully. “Perhaps he isn’t entirely incorrect,” he says after a pause, his tone thick with worry. “I was not his attending psychiatrist, but he was trusting me to keep an eye on his health. I suppose I failed him in that regard.”

“No, Doctor Lecter,” Jack reassures, reaching out and touching his arm. Hannibal’s lip twitches in the tiniest of snarls, but Jack doesn’t notice. “It wasn’t your fault. Will told me you took him to a neurologist, and that’s all you reasonably could have done. It’s unfortunate that his condition was missed, but it happens.”

“Be that as it may,” Hannibal says with a sigh, “he trusted me with his well being, and I was unable to give him the help he needed when he fell ill. I cannot blame him for his anger towards me.”

“Hannibal, believe me,” Jack says firmly. “You did what you could. He’ll come around in time; we just need to let him blow off some steam.”

Hannibal leans back in his chair, sighing again as his back hits the cushion. “Thank you,” he says, “I appreciate your assurances. I might need some time myself to escape the feeling of guilt, but... hopefully, we will both be able to forgive me.” 

Jack nods and sets down his empty glass. “Just… don’t take anything he might say to you too personally.”

Hannibal watches the flames dance in the hearth. “I will try my best not to.”

 

~

 

The file sits waiting for him on his desk, left there before he could even get to work. The manilla folder is unmarked, but there’s no doubt in Will’s mind as to what it is. He sighs and sets down his bag.

It still feels a little too soon. But even so, almost a full week of delay since his return to teaching is better than he could have hoped for. 

He knows the drill. His class has either been cancelled outright or, if he’s lucky, Jack set up a substitute. If Alana took up the task again, he’ll have to send her a gift basket or something. He rubs his eyes hard and leans against the side of his desk, opening up the folder.

The pictures make him grimace. Not because they’re more gruesome than he can handle, but because his extended vacation away from this sort of imagery has made him unused to it. He’ll need to readjust quickly.

It’s the Ripper’s work; he knows it the second he sees the scene. The victim’s face is too mutilated to identify, but he looks like a middle aged white male. His clothes are of quite good quality; probably an upper class man in some sort of educated profession. He lies in the middle of a country road. 

The mutilation is genuinely hard to look at. The man’s cranium had been split open like a tin can, the top of his head sitting on the ground beside him. His brain tissue is spilled out onto the pavement, almost liquefied; Will imagines the Ripper reaching into the man’s open skull and crushing the grey matter with his gloved hands. It feels spongy and springy between his fingers, until it turns to goo. Will shivers.

As if the mess made of his brain wasn’t enough, the man’s face has been thoroughly burned as well. The damage is quite controlled, kept only to his head. The flesh is blackened and charred, but not completely scorched away. The smell of burnt meat appears in Will’s nose, making him wince. 

Will pulls the report out from underneath the photos. No identification has been made yet, but they’re working on analyzing his dental records. Apparently, he had been left on an isolated road ten miles south of Baltimore, where he was found by a very unfortunate passing motorist in the dead of night. A nasty surprise, Will is sure. Cause of death was hypovolemic shock. No organs were taken.

Will closes the folder and grips it tightly, his breath rattling ever so slightly. He knows this was the Ripper; he can feel it. The whole thing is coated in anger, anger so thick that it leeches into Will’s mind and makes him feel like he needs to punch something. Whoever this guy was, he had seriously pissed the Ripper off. But… there’s something else here. An emotion mixed in with the disdain and rage, one he hasn’t felt from the Ripper’s kills before. He can’t quite pick out what it is. 

He’ll have plenty of time to think about it. For now, he needs to head down to forensics before anyone starts calling for him. 

He shoves the folder into his bag and heads out of his office, very much wishing he could have just gone to class and had a peaceful morning. As he passes by the cafeteria, he decides that he needs another coffee. It’s going to be a long day, he can feel it. 

As he picks up his drink and starts to head out, he hears a familiar, accented voice. 

“Will?”

He cringes, draws up his shoulders, and hurries out of the cafe. It’s definitely going to be a long day.

“Will, is that you?” 

Will should have expected him to follow, but it still pisses him off. He whips around suddenly, and the doctor nearly crashes into him. “What do you want?” Will hisses.

Hannibal looks startled, but Will doesn’t buy it. “Will, I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks,” he says, putting on a smile. “I heard that you have made a full recovery—”

“Did you follow me here, Doctor Lecter?” Will asks, his eyes narrowed.

“What? Oh, no, of course not,” Hannibal says, his smile faltering. “I was asked to speak at a seminar class this afternoon. I will admit that I hoped to run into you while I was here, but by no means did I follow you.”

Will doesn’t believe him, not for a second. “I have no interest in talking to you right now.”

“I don’t understand,” Hannibal says, his brows furrowing. “Why have you been so insistent on ignoring me? I’ve been very worried about you.”

Will sneers. “People keep telling me that,” he says, barely keeping himself from crushing his cup of coffee. “And yet I don’t believe it coming out of your mouth any more than I believe it from anyone else.”

“You think I’m lying?” 

“Of course you’re lying! I know what you did to me!”

Hannibal pauses, and Will can see his mind whirring. “What I… did to you?” he repeats, turning the words over in his head. “Will, I’m afraid I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

“Cut the bullshit,” Will says, meeting Hannibal’s gaze directly with a wicked glare. “You knew about what I had. You and your neurologist friend lied to me when you told me there was nothing wrong.” He laughs. “You knew about it way before then, didn’t you? How many seizures did I have in front of you, Doctor Lecter?”

“Will, please—”

“What were you waiting for? When was it going to end? When I walked off the roof of my house? When I got hit by a car in the middle of the night? When I seized while driving and got killed in a wreck? Huh?”

“No, Will,” Hannibal says with something almost like urgency, “I never had any desire to see you killed. Please, you have to understand that.”

“You had a damn funny way of showing that.” Will steps closer to him, his glare unwavering. “You endangered my fucking life, Hannibal. Over and over and over. I have no idea why, but I know that you did.”

Hannibal stares back at him, surprise plain on his face. However he expected this encounter to play out, it wasn’t like this. 

Will smirks. “Don’t worry about it, though. You’re not going to get in trouble. No one believes me.” He laughs again, the sound sharp and hollow. “No, I’m just shaken up from my brain disease. I don’t know what I’m talking about, you see. Doctor Hannibal Lecter would never dream of doing such a thing.” He swallows. “I’m just insane.”

Hannibal’s expression softens. His tongue flicks over his lips and he blinks. “You’re not insane,” he murmurs.

“Yeah. I know I’m not,” Will says steelily. “I don’t know why the hell you did it, or what you got out of it. But I know what happened.” He steps away from the startled doctor. “Don’t try talking to me anymore.”

“Will—”

“I mean it,” Will cuts him off, “I don’t want to see you again. I trusted you, and you almost got me killed. And whether anyone else believes me or not, I know what happened.”

Hannibal just looks at him with that schooled neutral expression. But Will can see where it crinkles at the edges, where the distress filters out from underneath. 

“Goodbye, Doctor Lecter,” Will says, turning on his heel and walking away. Hannibal does not follow. 

  
  


“There you are, Will,” Jack says as Will hurries into the forensics lab. The forensics team have the body laid out, and all four of them stand around it. “We’ve all been waiting.”

“Sorry,” Will says, his breath short, “I got held up on the way here.”

“Are you okay?” Beverly asks, frowning. “You look like you just got dumped.”

He bristles. “I did not just get dumped. I’m fine,” he insists, “and I didn’t come here to talk about my personal life.”

“That’s right.” Jack nods. “We’re here to talk about this case. As far as we can tell, this is the first killing of this nature. But with this level of brutality, we can’t ignore the possibility of this guy striking again.”

“It’s the Ripper,” Will says instantly. Everyone turns to look at him.

“No organs were taken,” Brian points out. “That’s the Ripper’s calling card.”

“The brain. He probably took a piece of the brain.”

“The brain is a pile of mush left spilled on the road,” Jimmy says. “That’s not much of a trophy.”

Will shrugs. “Could’ve taken the piece before he crushed the rest. Not much way to tell it was missing, and the apparent lack of surgical trophy would throw off a connection to him.”

Beverly nods a little, smiling. “Huh,” she says. “So what makes you so sure it’s the Ripper then?”

“I can feel it,” Will says dismissively. 

“Now hang on a second. I don’t understand why the Ripper would want to avoid a connection to this kill,” Jack says with a frown, folding his arms over his chest. “He’s a proud killer who wants credit for his work.”

“I’m not sure,” Will says, looking down into the body’s ruined face, “I just… feel it.” He blinks a few times, waves of the Ripper’s anger and… whatever else washing through his mind. It feels almost… personal. He exhales through his nose and lets his eyes flicker closed. He imagines the Ripper, holding a circular saw against burned skin. He imagines taking a slice of brain directly out of the middle of the left hemisphere, carefully packaging it, and tucking it away. He imagines crushing what remains. The sensation makes him shiver again. No, this isn’t new. He needs further back.

He imagines waiting for a friend to arrive at his home, a syringe filled with sodium thiopental in his hand.

“I think this was someone he knew personally,” Will says, his own voice startling him out of his reverie. A beat of silence settles over the room.

“I guess this is a good time to say that we got the dental analysis back,” Jimmy says, breaking it.

Brian twists around and grabs a folder off the counter. He flips it open and clears his throat. “White male, age 45, a neurologist. Dr. Donald Sutcliffe.”

He keeps talking after that, but Will can’t hear him.

He feels like he has been plunged underwater. He’s standing in the foyer again, syringe still in hand. He watches himself open the door, and his neurologist walks in. Before the man can even say hello, the syringe has been plunged into his neck. 

The image falters, and suddenly, Will is dragging him down a flight of stairs. He blinks, and he’s looking down at Sutcliffe, who he has strapped to an operating table. 

The waves of anger and disdain crash into him again, but this time, he can feel the third emotion with much greater clarity. It feels like… like remorse. Guilt. 

Like this is an apology.

The image shifts. He is back in one of his nightmares, with Hannibal’s hand clutched tight in his hair as he holds Will underwater. Will scrabbles at his wrist, trying to make him let go as he struggles to hold his breath. And then, the hand yanks upward, and his head breaches the surface. He coughs and sputters, tears streaming down his face. 

Hannibal speaks to him, but he can’t hear it over his own racing heart. Despite his blurred vision, he can just barely read Hannibal’s lips. “I never had any desire to see you killed.”

Will lets out a shaky sigh as he pulls himself out of his imagination. The others are still conversing. 

“I know who this is,” Will says quietly. The conversation halts.

“Excuse me?” says Jack. 

“Dr. Donald Sutcliffe,” Will says slowly, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “Dr. Donald Sutcliffe was the neurologist who told me nothing was wrong.”

“That’s… a weird coincidence,” Jimmy says.

“Do you think this had something to do with you?” Beverly asks, taking note of Will’s expression.

“Why would it have something to do with him?” Brian asks, frowning.

Will shakes his head and takes a step back from the table. “I need to… to think about this…” he says. Jack frowns at him.

“Will?” he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Just… I need a minute,” Will says, and before anyone else can protest, he rushes out of the room.

 

~

 

Hannibal sits down to a meal by himself. Cervella fritte, served with a browned butter sauce, fresh baked bread, and a salad of tossed greens. The flavour is perfect, and he commends himself for his hard work.

But he does not enjoy it quite as much as he would normally. His conversation with Will has run through his mind several times now, and for the life of him, he cannot see why it went so poorly. He didn’t give Hannibal any chance to smooth things over. 

It should not trouble him so much that Will is angry at him. But he cannot seem to push the image of his furious, hurt face out of his mind’s eye. 

Perhaps Hannibal has made a mistake. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The funny thing about Hannibal as a character is that, even though I love him and am ultimately happy to see him succeed, it's also just the best to see him squirm. It's what he deserves.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for all your enthusiastic support! You can find me and my currently endless stream of Hannibal art on tumblr [here](http://embulalia.tumblr.com); same username. ♡


	3. In Which Beverly Katz Listens, For Real

Bedelia has been paying less than full attention during her sessions with Hannibal as of late. It’s shamefully unprofessional of her, but she’s good enough at faking attentiveness to not let it worry her too much. 

She often wishes that it were acceptable to drink during his appointments. Maybe that would make it easier to tolerate the thick tension that has hung in the air during them, chilling her blood and making her so very uncomfortable. It wasn’t always like that; he started off quite pleasant and sociable. She even liked him, once.

But the air between them has been different. Exactly what shifted it is difficult for her to pin down. Perhaps it was the attack from one of his former patients, which has changed far more about her attitude than just her sessions with Hannibal. But she could swear that Hannibal is the one who seems different, and that it’s a change that happened even more recently than that incident. She has her theories, but there seems little point in trying to address it with Hannibal. He would deny it, of that she is certain. There is nothing to be done but try to suffer through it to the best of her ability. 

She had taken two shots of vodka before Hannibal arrived today, neat and strong. Much too strong for her; she gagged on the burn they sent down her throat. The rush of alcohol hasn’t seemed to help all that much; her thoughts are still way too clear for her liking.

How long has this session been going? She glances at her watch, disguising the motion by crossing her legs and smoothing out her dress. Less than halfway through. Oh, how they seem to drag on.  

As much as she would like to, she can’t spend the entirety of the appointment wrapped up in her thoughts. She eases out a slow breath and forces herself to pay attention to what Hannibal is saying before he realizes that she had zoned out. 

“...and before I could so much as greet him, he was already snapping at me furiously,” Hannibal says, his brows drawn together and the corners of his lips quirked slightly downward. “I tried to ease him out of his anger, but he wouldn’t let me get a word in. I cannot remember the last time someone spoke to me so… so brashly.”

Some part of Bedelia tells her that whoever this person is, they are in danger. She could not say exactly where that thought came from, but it’s almost mortifyingly unprofessional. Perhaps the shots are affecting her after all. 

“And what did you do, Hannibal?” she asks, because she missed the first half of his story and lacks the knowledge to ask anything more specific than that.

“I told him the truth, that I had no intention of hurting him so badly,” Hannibal says, quickly tapping his fingers on the plush leather of his chair. Her chair. “He has refused to speak to me since, just as he had been ignoring me before. I find myself missing his companionship more than…” He pauses for a moment, swallows, and finishes with a sigh, “Much more than I ever could have expected to.”

Ah, this is about Will Graham again. She should have guessed that.

“And was that the truth?” she asks, thinking of the bottle of wine that sits waiting for her in the drawer of her desk. She will uncork it the second that Hannibal leaves the office. 

“Yes, of course it was,” Hannibal insists. “He had entrusted me with his health, and I intended to watch it to the best of my abilities.”

_ That sounds like a lie _ , Bedelia thinks to herself. But she isn’t in the mood to throw around any accusations. Besides, it was worded just vaguely enough that it could probably be considered a technical truth if nothing else. That’s good enough for her these days.

“You said that you’re missing him,” she repeats, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. “More than you expected to, specifically. Did you… not expect to miss him?” 

The furrow in Hannibal’s brow deepens by a notch or two. The idea that he hadn’t thought of it seems quite ridiculous. She suspects that anyone could have told him that he would miss Will Graham. “I suppose that I have been caught off guard by how much I miss him, yes.”

“Were you expecting to be put into a position where you would have to miss him, Hannibal?”

He looks at her dead on, and a chill runs down her spine. Perhaps that was a little too close to an accusation. 

“One must always be cognizant of the fact that relationships have conclusions,” he says. The tapping of his fingers against the chair has ceased. “I tend to assume that every person I meet will, eventually, no longer be speaking to me.”

Bedelia sighs again, this one slow and silent. “So you have been operating under the assumption that your relationship with Will Graham would end one day. And yet, now that it has, you are troubled by the fact that you miss him.”

Hannibal almost seems to bristle, which strikes Bedelia as odd. She hadn’t said anything that might upset him; all she did was repeat back what he had said himself.

“I don’t think my relationship with Will Graham has ended,” he says.

She pauses for just a second too long before saying, “He believes you have willfully endangered his life, shouted at you, and has refused to speak to you for several weeks. Does that not sound like he no longer wants to consider you a friend?”

Hannibal’s fingers curl into a fist. Bedelia’s eyes flick to it for a brief moment before returning to his impassive face. “I don’t think that I am ready for my relationship with Will Graham to end,” he amends.

“Hannibal, you yourself said that all relationships have their conclusions.” She feels distinctly like she is poking an already irritated animal with a pointed stick, but there is no other reasonable course down which she can direct this conversation. “It’s possible that you will have to come to terms with his position on the matter, even if it’s not what you want.”

Hannibal looks down to the floor. “It isn’t just  a matter of what either of us want,” he says, “Our situation isn’t that simple. We have to consider our obligations to Abigail.”

Bedelia sighs another slow, silent sigh. She frequently forgets that her patient had all but adopted a teenager with his friend of, at the time, no more than a week. “Abigail is how old?”

“She is 17, still a minor and in need of the support offered by guardians.”

“Undoubtably,” Bedelia says with a nod, “but she is also not a child facing down the divorce of parents she has grown up with. She hasn’t known either of you for very long, and will be able to adjust to the two of you offering her support separately.”

Hannibal frowns outright, which Bedelia hasn’t seen him do often. His facial expressions are typically contained to subtle quirks and twitches. “I want us to be there for her together. As a unit.”

“Again, it’s possible that you will have to come to terms with the fact that this situation just isn’t going to turn out the way you want it to,” she repeats. This is the closest to in control she has ever felt when speaking with Hannibal, and it’s emboldening her to say things with far less caution than usual. She feels like she’s scolding any other patient. 

This time, it’s Hannibal who lets out a slow, silent sigh. He shuts his eyes, and Bedelia watches as he intentionally relaxes his muscles. Some of her usual wariness returns to her. “I would like your advice as to how I can rectify the situation,” he says delicately, “not a dismissal.”

A funny little idea comes to mind. It catches her off guard, almost enough to make her scoff out loud. But after the initial shock of it has dissipated, she can’t help but turn it over in her head and consider it from a few different angles. She frowns. 

“You said that you tried to talk to him, yes?” she asks. It isn’t yet time to present her new little idea, she needs a more appropriate window.

“Yes,” he says with a nod, apparently relieved to be backing away from discussion of how hopeless it is. “I had hoped to smooth out some of his anger, but he was unwilling to listen to me.”

“What would you have said to him had he given you the opportunity?”

“I would have assured him that I have nothing but his best interest at heart,” Hannibal says eagerly, “that I want only to see him thriving and happy. That I…” He pauses for a moment. “That I want to be a part of that happiness.” 

That little idea that had popped into Bedelia’s mind is looking more and more reasonable, which feels more and more ridiculous. She nods, buying herself a second more to think about how she could possibly present this to him.

“Hannibal… have you considered the possibility that you are… infatuated with Will Graham?” she asks carefully.

Hannibal looks baffled. His incredibly pale eyebrows have hiked upward, and he stares at her in an expression approaching a gape. Then, he blinks and schools his face back into something more neutral. “Infatuated?” he parrots, speaking like she had asked if he were hiding a second head under his suit. “What gives you that idea?”

“‘I want to be a part of his happiness,’” she repeats. “Those are very strong words.”

“What person wouldn’t want to be a part of their friend’s happiness?” he says, almost defensively.

“Hannibal, I think it would benefit you to consider the possibility—”

“I am uninterested in wasting time on this,” he cuts her off, shaking his head. “I asked for advice pertaining to how I could rectify the situation. I want to repair our friendship, nothing more.” He says the last two words like a challenge. Bedelia is not looking to meet him on it today.

She is silent for a moment, trying in earnest to come up with something that could be genuinely helpful. She isn’t sure why she bothers; Hannibal does listen to her, but this relationship seems beyond salvaging. Especially if he is completely unwilling to even consider examining exactly why he is so intent on clinging to it.

“I believe that… your best option would be to leave him alone,” she finally says.

“I told you that I do not want a dismissal,” he says, frowning.

“I’m not giving you a dismissal,” she says. “I wasn’t finished. I suggest that you leave him alone so that he may work through his anger on his own terms. I know that this isn’t what you want to hear, but… Hannibal, there probably isn’t a way for you to fix this yourself.” 

His frown deepens and he sinks further back into his chair. But he doesn’t protest, so she continues.

“Will Graham believes that you, through an act of severe neglect, have made an attempt on his life. Whether there is any truth to that belief or not… it’s unlikely that he wants to hear your justifications.” She pauses again, feeling even more like she is provoking an irritable predator. “You need to leave him alone. If he ever decides that he is willing to set aside his anger and welcome you back into his life, he will come to you.”

It’s Hannibal’s turn to pause and think. Bedelia tries not to squirm in her seat as she waits for him to break the silence. 

“So what you’re telling me is that you truly do think it hopeless,” he says, his tone a little too neutral to believe.

_ Yes, _ Bedelia thinks. “Maybe,” Bedelia says. 

He goes quiet once more, and Bedelia thinks again of her bottle of wine. 

But then, he lets out a tiny chuckle. This startles her, and she sits up a little straighter, watching him carefully. He relaxes in his seat and finally, finally unclenches his fist. Bedelia hadn’t realized how on edge that had been making her until the tension is finally released. 

“I’m afraid that I will have to respectfully disagree, Dr Du Maurier,” Hannibal says, smiling. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “It just isn’t in my nature to give up so easily.”

That doesn’t surprise her. She has no particular fondness for Will Graham, but still, she feels the need to put out one last warning, no matter how futile. “Hannibal, you cannot force someone to return your feelings for them.”

Hannibal’s smile does not waver. “Fortunately,” he says, “I have no intention of forcing such a thing.”

It is all Bedelia can do to keep herself from visibly shivering. 

 

~

 

Will’s dramatic exit had put something of a shocked smog over the rest of the team. No one quite knew how to react to that sudden turn of events. A silence had ensued for a moment or two, a pause while everyone waited for someone to break it. Jack did the honours, directing his crew to just keep working as if none of that had happened. So that’s what they did.

But it really couldn’t stay that way for long, not after the bombshells that Will had dropped on them before fleeing the room in what almost looked like a panic. 

“So are we… operating under the assumption that this really was the Ripper?” Jimmy asks eventually, breaking the seal. 

“I don’t really see it,” Brian admits with a frown, setting down the scalpel he had been using. “It just… feels like a stretch to say that the Ripper would want to avoid credit for one of his kills. Plus, he didn’t take a trophy.”

Beverly also sets down her scalpel, stepping back from the table to stretch. “Didn’t you hear Will? He probably took part of the brain.”

“That’s a little convenient, don’t you think?” Brian retorts.

Jack sighs from where he stands nearby, monitoring their work. “Look,” he says sternly, “Let’s just focus on getting all the information we can out of this first.”

“Seriously? So we’re actually just going to pretend that none of that just happened?” Brian protests. “If anything, all it’s doing is making me think that WILL might be involved somehow.”

“You didn’t just say that,” Beverly says, narrowing her eyes.

Brian holds up his hands. “I mean come on, you saw how freaked out he was. And we know he has a motive, which is more than we can say about the Ripper here.” When no one comes forward to agree with him, he adds, “I’m mostly kidding, but you’ve gotta admit that was really, really weird.”

“It was definitely weird,” Jimmy says, looking back down at the body that they had all stopped working on to talk. “And I’m really not sure I buy that it’s a Ripper kill either. The only reason we have to think that is because Will said so.”

“And is Will not almost always correct?” Beverly points out. “That’s why we even bring him here, because he has way better ideas than anyone else ever seems to be.”

“Yeah, I know, and I’m not denying that. But we really have NOTHING else, that’s all I’m trying to say,” Jimmy says with a sigh. 

Brian frowns thoughtfully and offers, “Well, there is one thing, and that’s that it was a pretty fucked up presentation. But the Ripper doesn’t exactly have a copyright on that.”

“That’s definitely true, there are plenty of creative psychos around here,” Jimmy agrees. “Don’t forget the human totem pole.”

“No one is ever going to forget the human totem pole,” Brian says, smirking at him. 

“Yeah yeah, I get that,” Beverly says, turning to Jack, “but are we actually going to dismiss what he said?”

Jack hesitates, pursing his lips and looking away from them. He had been trying to avoid having this confrontation until he himself had come to a few conclusions, but perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that his team wouldn’t let that happen. “I’m… hesitant to take the claim at face value,” he says eventually. “We don’t have any particularly compelling evidence to the truth of it.”

“It’s WILL,” Beverly protests. “He’s always right. Why would we stop listening to him now?”

“Because he just got out of the hospital after treatment for an advanced brain disease,” Jack says sharply, fixing her with a look. “If there were ever a time to doubt his conclusions, it would be now.”

“He sure didn’t seem like he was… completely alright, as it were,” Jimmy supplies.

“Then why did we even bring him in?” Beverly accuses, not backing down from Jack’s look. “If you didn’t plan to listen to him, then you should’ve just let him take some time off and recover.”

Jack huffs. “I had hoped that he would be able to help us, since we can’t seem to get much done without him,” he says, turning it into a reprimand towards his employees. 

“So that’s it then? We’re just gonna dump what he said and go back to square one?” Beverly asks.

“We’re not exactly at square one,” Brian points out, gesturing towards the cadaver. “There’s a lot here, you know? It’s a very specific MO and target demographic. Won’t be hard to keep an eye out for any similar kills.”

“Should we be offering protection to other wealthy doctors?” Jimmy asks.

Jack thinks of Hannibal, who had already suffered an encounter with a serial killer and barely came out the other side. “It might be worth looking into,” he says, “but it also might be too early to make a compelling case for it.” 

“Should we be keeping an eye on Will?” Brian asks. An awkward silence falls over the room, and Beverly shakes her head hard. 

“I can’t believe you’re actually suggesting that he did this, Zeller,” she says after a moment.

“All I’m saying is that he has plenty of motive. We all know how pissed he was at this guy,” Brian insists. “And hey, maybe him saying that it was a Chesapeake Ripper kill was an attempt to defer suspicion from himself.”

Jimmy frowns. “I guess that’s… not a bad point,” he says hesitantly. “And him reacting so badly to the mere suggestion that he had something to do with it isn’t really encouraging…”

Jack looks away from them again, shifting in place as he turns the idea over in his head.

“You’re not actually considering this, are you?” Beverly asks him in disbelief. “There are a million reasons why he would be upset by that, and ‘he’s the one who killed the guy’ is so far down on that list that it’s barely worth thinking about.”

“Katz, you can’t pretend that he isn’t a compelling suspect just because you don’t want him to be one,” Brian says. “It’s not like I want him to be either, but what else do we have right now?”

“The Chesapeake Ripper,” Beverly says firmly. “It’s not right of us to dismiss Will’s perspective just because we don’t want him to be right, either. He’s always right.”

“But he has been sick,” Jack says, shaking his head. “This is going around in circles. I don’t think that Will did this, but I don’t think the Chesapeake Ripper did either.” He looks back down at the cadaver, scrutinizing its burned face. “Our best course of action is just to keep searching for anything we might have missed. We’ll head out to the crime scene tonight, and keep our minds open to whatever evidence we find.” He says that with a pointed look towards Beverly, who huffs a little. “As for Will… we’ll keep an eye on him. But informally for now.”

No one steps forth to argue, so Jack nods and rests his hands on his hips, satisfied enough for now. 

“You can put this away when you’re finished with your examinations,” he says, nodding to the body. “Be ready to leave in two hours.”

No one tries to break the silence that ensues after Jack has left. 

 

~

 

Will sits in his car, his head leaned back against the headrest and his eyes closed. He has been working on leveling out his breathing. The AC is cranked all the way up in the hopes of cutting down on his sweating, although all that seems to have done is make him very, very cold. 

He doesn’t know how long it has been since he stormed out. Or perhaps fled is more apt. But he wouldn’t be surprised if his phone has been blown up with missed calls from Jack, demanding to know where he disappeared to. He wouldn’t know, he turned it off as he was hurrying away. 

He doesn’t know where that burst of thought came from. It was all so strong, felt so real. He actually felt like Hannibal was right there, holding him underwater, whispering assurances to him as he panicked. Is being saved at the last second, and offered cold comforts worse than feeling like he’s definitely doomed to die? 

He drags his hands down his face. His glasses sit in the cupholder beside him, shed a while ago so that he could rub his eyes without worrying about knocking them off. He presses down against his closed eyes until he sees colours, and then releases the pressure. 

Does he… does he actually think that…

That Hannibal could be…

Will shakes his head a little, barely able to even think his accusation. It feels so wrong, so unbelievably horrible that he can’t acknowledge it in any capacity. 

But Hannibal does fit the profile. Older white man, a skilled surgeon, affluent. Strong and charismatic, but easy to anger. And it’s all too easy to picture him with a hard glint in his stony eyes, a splatter of blood splashing across his face…

Will harshly rubs his eyes again, trying to scrub the image away. 

He’s certain, absolutely certain that Sutcliffe was a Ripper kill. No matter what anyone else thinks, he will not back down from that. And it really did feel like the Ripper must have known him personally. It’s such a… a PERSONAL kill. Everything about it seems to radiate anger and vengeance, like this was a very deliberately chosen punishment for something the neurologist had done. 

And that’s not to mention the remorse…

That alone is enough to leave him consumed by confusion. The Ripper doesn’t feel remorse. He shouldn’t be capable of feeling remorse. Someone capable of feeling remorse shouldn’t be capable of the kind of sadistic horror the Ripper achieves. Will’s stomach twists ever so slightly.

But it wasn’t remorse for what was done to Sutcliffe, that’s the thing. No, the Ripper definitely hated Sutcliffe and felt like what was done to him was completely justified. The remorse was for a third party, and it was clearly meant to be seen by whoever that third party was.

Who else could this possibly be for if not Will? And who else would think to punish this man so specifically, so symbolically tied to what happened to Will at his hands? Sutcliffe’s brain was destroyed, his head scorched beyond recognition. The allusion to inflammation of the brain is almost too easy.

Who else would know to deliver this specific a retribution to this man, if not Hannibal?

Will shakes his head again. It’s so confusing, so contradictory. He knew that Hannibal was up to something fucked, that much was obvious. But this? This is so far beyond anything Will ever could have imagined. 

And yet… Him being a sadist to this degree would certainly explain why he felt the need to toy with Will’s life so brazenly…

And yet again, if that were the case, then why would he feel the need to apologize, let alone in such a gruesome and dramatic manner?

He lightly thumps his head against the headrest, feeling the impact of his skull on the cushion. It doesn’t hurt, of course, but the jostle seems to shake up his thoughts the slightest bit. 

His instinctive thought is that there’s no question. That Hannibal did this, and that he did it for Will. But instincts are just that, instincts; what does he have to justify this assumption, aside from it really feeling like the truth? The fact that his feelings are usually correct can only take him so far. 

Does he even want to be right about this? If this is really the truth, it’s opening the door to a hellish path ahead. He can’t even get people to believe that Hannibal is a bad psychiatrist. How the hell is he going to convince anyone of this, especially when it sends even him into a pit of turmoil and uncertainty?

But it would explain why Hannibal did what he did to him. It would cast all of Will’s other uncertainties into an entirely new, more logical light. It makes sense, really. Even if the remorse doesn’t.

A faint idea bats through his head, one that might explain why Hannibal—or the Ripper, whatever the case might be—would feel the need to avenge Will’s mistreatment. To apologize for it, even if it was entirely his own doing. But it’s so ridiculous that Will doesn’t even dignify it with a proper acknowledgement, and it slips away, to be replaced by his other confusions.

It’s getting harder and harder to deny that it adds up, and that scares him a little. He isn’t sure he wants to be right. What can he even do about this? If this is true, then what the hell is he supposed to do about it? 

Will turns one of the air vents directly towards his own face, hoping the sting of cold air will break him out of these intense, confusing thoughts. All it does is make him even colder and dry out his eyes. He blinks them rapidly and rubs them hard enough to draw forth tears.

That’s when someone raps on his window. The sudden, loud sound sends him scrambling in his seat, the tears he had induced dribbling down his cheeks. His watery gaze finds Beverly, who looks at him with surprise that quickly turns into sympathy when she gets a good look at his face. Will swipes at his cheeks and rolls down the window.

“Hey,” she says, her tone soft and gentle. “Are you okay?”

Will can’t help but let out a reedy little laugh. “I’ve been worse,” he says.

She smiles a little and shakes her head, rolling her eyes. “Can I talk to you for a bit?”

Will blinks, then decides he might as well. He unlocks the passenger side door with an audible clunk, and she walks around to the other side of his car. It rocks when she slips in beside him.

“Jesus, why is it so cold in here?” she asks immediately, closing the air vent on her side. 

“I like it that way,” he says, even as he also directs it back away from his face and onto his body. It’s embarrassing enough to have been caught teary eyed, he doesn’t need to make it worse. 

She frowns, but lets it be for now. “So,” she says after a pause, “You had a… a lot to say, earlier.”

He nods. “I’m still trying to make sense of it myself,” he admits. “It all… it all kinda hit me at once, I guess.”

She watches him as he lets out a shaky sigh, squirming in his seat. “Are you sure you’re not cold?” she asks. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” He hesitates, and then adds, “I was feeling way too hot earlier, and this helps a bit.”

He can tell she doesn’t believe him, but she still lets it go. “Honestly, you came in looking all scrambled,” she says. “Like you maybe shouldn’t have been looking at something so gruesome.”

“I can handle a little gore,” he says defensively, snorting.

“I know you can,” she agrees, “but that was more than ‘a little gore’, you know? Even professionals can get a bit fucked up by that sort of stuff sometimes. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” She leans forward a little, hoping to catch his eye. He meets her gaze for a second, but flicks his eyes back down into his lap soon after. “Especially if they’re already upset,” she adds.

Will doesn’t answer, squirming even more. The sweat on his skin is making the cold air extra sharp, and he can’t help but shiver a little. Beverly reaches over and turns the temperature back up to something more mild, and the blasting air cuts off. He lets her, grateful that she hadn’t made a big deal out of the gesture.

“Would you be okay with telling me why you were upset when you came in?” she asks.

Will hesitates. “I, uh,” he says awkwardly, “I don’t really know how to explain the situation.”

“That’s okay,” she assures. “I don’t mind if it’s a little weird. You know people in our line of work have gotta be okay with strangeness.” She smiles encouragingly.

He turns his face towards her, but keeps his gaze away from her own, looking vaguely in the direction of her collarbone. “I had gotten into an argument, I guess,” he says.

“What sort of argument?” she asks. Then, she remembers something, and quickly adds, “If you actually were getting dumped by someone, then I’m sorry I said that to you. I didn’t think you were in a relationship.”

“No, that’s not it,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m definitely not in a relationship.” He can’t prevent a bitter smirk from tugging at his lips as he adds, “Pretty sure no one in their right mind would want to be with someone like me.”

Beverly frowns. “Well, I guess you’re lucky that there are plenty of people not in their right mind out there,” she tells him matter of factly. 

He snorts again, this time out of genuine humour. There certainly are, and they both know it very intimately.

“So it wasn’t a breakup,” she prompts after he doesn’t say anything else. “What was it then?”

“I guess it was… kind of like a breakup, but like... a platonic one?” Will says hesitantly. “I was telling someone that I never want to see them again, I mean. If that counts.”

“Yeah, I think that counts,” she says thoughtfully. “That sounds kind of intense. What was it about?”

Will sinks down in his seat with a sigh, turning to look back out the windshield. “You, uh… You remember Dr. Lecter, right?”

“Yeah, he consulted on a few of our cases with you,” she says. “I heard he’s been driving everybody crazy trying to contact you while you were sick.”

Will still doesn’t know how to register that information in conjunction with everything else, so he just ignores it. “I basically told him to fuck off and never contact me again,” he says flatly.

She blinks. “Oh.” Another silent pause fills the car, during which Will focuses on keeping his breathing from rattling audibly. “Are you, uh… gonna tell me why?” she prompts eventually.

“I think he knew that I was sick and hid it from me. Maybe even intentionally made it worse. I almost got permanent brain damage or died because of it.”

This time, the pause is less built on suspense than abject horror. She stares at him wide eyed; he can see it through the rearview mirror. 

“Are you serious?” she asks.

“Like the plague.”

“Will, holy shit.” She leans forward, trying to catch a glimpse of his facial expression. He tilts his head towards her a smidgeon to let her. “How do you know it wasn’t just a mistake or a misunderstanding or something?”

It feels so different this time, less like an outright or encroaching dismissal and more a genuine desire to understand his position. He almost doesn’t know how to handle that. He swallows and tries to keep his voice from coming out too gummy. “I told him about all my symptoms from the start, you know? I was… I was really trusting him to… to help me.” He swallows again, feeling a lump at the back of his throat. God damn it. “He knew everything about what was happening to me, but he didn’t do shit about it.” He pauses to gather himself, to swallow down that lump and keep his eyes dry. He wishes the fan was still blasting into his face. “He took me to see Sutcliffe, and they… they both ran tests, they both said I was fine. And I wasn’t.” 

“And they should’ve been able to tell?” she asks gently.

Will nods. He tries to keep talking, but his voice catches; he clears his throat before trying again. “I, uh. I saw another neurologist the same week that I saw Sutcliffe with Hannib—Dr. Lecter.” He pauses again, swallows again, and continues. “I asked them if there was any… any way at all it could’ve been missed. I was told over and over that there was absolutely no damn way.” He drags his hands down his face. He has told this story so many times, but this is the first time it has been anywhere near this hard to get through. 

Beverly watches him quietly, chewing her lip, waiting to see if he’s going to add anything more. After it’s clear that he has finished his current thought, she sighs and says, “I see why you told him to fuck off.”

Will laughs. “You know, you’re the first person who hasn’t tried to tell me that I should just hear him out,” he says, and he hates how frail his voice sounds. “Everyone else is worried that I’m hurting his feelings by ignoring him.”

“I barely know the guy, what do I care about his feelings? You’re my friend, Will,” Beverly tells him firmly.

Will laughs again and rubs his eyes. His breath catches on a sniffle, and he hates himself for it, but Beverly doesn’t give him any shit. He gives her a crooked smile. “Thank you,” he says quietly. 

She nods, then digs around in her pockets. She pulls out a wad of tissue and offers it out to him. “Allergies,” she explains, “I always try to stay loaded.”

His smile gets a little wider even as he blows his nose and awkwardly drops the tissue into his cup holder. If Beverly thinks it’s gross, she mercifully keeps that to herself.

“So you were already all frazzled, and then you came in there and found out something… pretty shocking,” Beverly says after Will has finished gathering himself back up. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” he says, licking his lips. 

Beverly looks like she wants to say something, but doesn’t come right out with it. Instead, she hesitates and says, “How are you, uh… feeling about that, anyway?”

He picks up on her hesitation and glances in her direction. She’s uncertain, maybe even a little angry? He sits up a bit straighter. “I guess I’m confused, mostly… Still trying to sort out what I’m thinking about it, you know?”

She nods. “That makes sense. I don’t think I would know how to take that either, especially not after having a fight with someone over it.” She seems… not pleased, maybe… vindicated by that response?

“Did something happen?” Will asks, his brow furrowed. He isn’t sure what to make of her emotional reactions.

This time, Beverly is the one who laughs tensely. “Should’ve guessed that you would figure out something was up,” she says. “You’re way too perceptive, you know that?”

“You know, that actually has come up once or twice.”

She snorts. But then the humour floods out of her, and she sighs tiredly. “We all had a good talk about it after you left. Some… accusations were tossed around.”

Will actually does look at her this time, worry making his stomach twist. “What do you mean, ‘accusations’?” he asks, dreading the answer.

“Don’t worry, Jack wound up deciding to dismiss them,” she assures preemptively. She’s trying to put it off, doesn’t want to tell him. That’s a bad sign. “I told him right away that there was no way.”

“What accusations?” Will repeats.

Beverly sighs again. “Zeller wondered if you might have been the one who killed Sutcliffe.”

Will’s blood runs cold. He grits his teeth and lets out a rattling breath. “He thought that… that I might be the Chesapeake Ripper…?” he asks quietly. 

“Well, not exactly. They also don’t think you’re right about that, and have decided to proceed as if it’s a completely separate case and a new, unidentified killer,” she explains. 

That’s a lot at once, and Will is still stuck on the first blow. “I-I don’t understand, why would they think that I did that…? I know I’m… I’m creepy and fucked up, but that’s… that’s—”

“I know,” she assures quickly, “and like I said, Jack didn’t buy it either. It was just an idea, that’s all. We were bouncing around all kinds of crazy stuff.”

Will can tell that’s a lie. She wouldn’t have been so hesitant about it if it weren’t something that was actually being considered in earnest. He shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back against his head rest. 

“Great,” he says with a heavy sigh, “so glad I get to add ‘suspected for murder’ to the list of shit I have to worry about right now.”

“We dismissed the idea,” Beverly repeats. “I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“No, no, it’s… I needed to know,” Will says. “Thanks. I just… I don’t really have it in me to pretend to not be upset about it.”

“Fair enough.” Beverly leans back in her seat as well, her gaze wandering across the dashboard of Will’s car. “You keep your car pretty tidy.”

Will raises a brow. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

“Well, yeah, it is. You don’t really seem like the organized type.”

Will shrugs. “I don’t know that I’m organized; my place is pretty cluttered. I guess I just like knowing where my things are.”

Beverly goes quiet again, giving Will a chance to process the news she had dumped on him before asking her next question. After a few minutes, she breaks their silence. “I don’t want to rush you or anything, but I haven’t actually brought up what I came here to ask you about. And I’m supposed to be meeting the others to go out to the crime scene soon.” A glance at the clock set in the dashboard tells her that she does still have time, but not enough to dally infinitely.

“You’re going to the crime scene?” Will asks, opening his eyes and looking over at her. “Am I supposed to be coming too?”

“I doubt it,” she assures. “We all were in agreement that you should be taking it easy for now.”

That’s a relief. Will glances down at his phone, wondering if he’s missing any important information by leaving it turned off. A problem for later.

“What did you want to ask me then, if none of that was it?” Will asks.

“I told you that the consensus was to treat this as a new case and dismiss the Chesapeake Ripper theory, right?” she asks. Will nods. “Well, I thought that was kind of bullshit, to be honest.” 

Will furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“The whole reason we want your consultations is that you’re really, scarily good at coming up with this stuff,” Beverly explains, a stony edge slipping into her voice. “It doesn’t make any sense to me that we should dump your conclusion just because it seems a little out of left field. Your track record speaks for itself, and what it says to me is that we should be listening to you.”

Will can’t help but smile hesitantly. “Thanks,” he says.

She nods. “And I wanted to pick your brain about it, if that’s alright with you. I wanted to know what it was about this that made you think it was the Ripper. If I had an idea of what you saw in it, I might know what to look for when we check out the scene.”

Will looks down at his lap. He hadn’t prepared for anything like this at all. “It’s… a little hard to explain,” he admits. 

“That’s okay, I’ll ask questions if I don’t understand.”

Will’s smile gets a bit wider, and he crosses his arms. “The Ripper’s kills have a certain… a feeling to them. It’s almost like an arrogance or something. They scream ‘I am so much greater than this creature, and dying by my hand is the greatest thing they will ever achieve.’” He pauses, licking his lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt such a strong sense of… of superiority and purpose from any other killer. It’s not even about the grandiosity, it’s just… so matter of fact. Like there’s no point in saying it out loud, it just is.”

“And you got that feeling from Sutcliffe?”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” Will says, nodding. “There’s no doubt in my mind that he was the Ripper’s.”

Beverly looks thoughtful. “You said you thought this was someone the Ripper knew personally. Why is that? It didn’t really look more personal to me than any other kill we attribute to the Ripper, all of his kills seem like that.”

“Yeah, they are all personal to some degree,” Will agrees. “But this was more than usual. It had all that disdain and superiority that the Ripper always has, but there was… something else there too.”

Beverly gestures for him to continue. He hesitates.

“There was… remorse,” Will says. Then, he adds quickly, “I didn’t want to say this because I know it sounds crazy. Just… hear me out, okay?”

Beverly looks doubtful, but she doesn’t say so. “That’s what I wanted, to hear you out,” she says. “How did that seem remorseful to you?”

Will is struck with the problem that he himself hasn’t quite wrapped his head around the idea that there was remorse in that kill. That will make explaining it difficult. But he knows what he felt. “I don’t think he felt bad about killing Sutcliffe, that’s not what I mean,” he says slowly. “He had no problem with doing that. I meant that… I think he was trying to show remorse to someone else. You know, by killing him.”

Beverly blinks, then narrows her eyes as she thinks through the implications. “Will, you aren’t saying that you think this was… for you, are you?”

Will swallows. When she says it out loud, it sounds even crazier than he thought it would. “I don’t know what it means yet, all I know is what I felt,” he says defensively.

“So you really do think you had something to do with this?”

“I didn’t kill him,” he says flatly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Will hugs his arms around himself a little tighter. “I had a… a thought, I guess. While I was looking at the body,” he says without thinking. Instantly, he regrets it. This accusation isn’t nearly solidified enough to share with someone.

“About who it was?” she asks, leaning closer to him. “You have a theory about who the Chesapeake Ripper is?”

“It’s just a thought right now. An… instinct, I guess.” He shuffles in place. “I just kind of… felt it, when I was looking down at the body. And it made a lot of sense to me.”

“Quit building the suspense and spit it out already, Will.”

He takes a breath. “I think it was Dr. Lecter.”

Silence. It weighs down on him, and he can practically feel her doubt and disbelief washing over him like swells of wind. He draws his shoulders up.

“I think it was Dr. Lecter, and that he did it to tell me he was sorry,” Will adds, his voice quiet.

He can’t look at her. He doesn’t want to see the doubt written all over her face. Feeling it in the air is bad enough.

“That’s… quite the theory,” she says, her voice cautious. “And I guess he does fit the profile.”

Will nods. “Yeah, he does.”

“But that’s… not… really enough to implicate him, is it?” she says gently. “I mean, there are plenty of rich asshole doctors, and that doesn’t mean they’re evil.”

Will nods again.

She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “I think that you’re right to be mad at Dr. Lecter, Will. I really do. Whether he was doing anything intentionally or not, he still should’ve been able to see that something was going on. I think he’s not as good of a doctor as he thinks he is.” She pauses again. “But I think that’s… probably all it is. That he’s not that good at his job.”

Will licks his lips again. “So much for ‘scarily good at coming up with this stuff,’ huh?” he asks.

“Will, come on, that’s not fair,” she says, flopping back in her seat. “I think you’re mostly right. I just wonder if you’re jumping to this conclusion because you’re mad at Dr. Lecter, and maybe you’re reading a little more into the signs than is really there. I don’t think that makes you bad at your job, not at all. I just think that you’re… upset. Rightfully upset, but still upset.” 

He sighs. “I am upset,” he admits. “But I also think that I’m right about this.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, looking directly at him. “Like, genuinely sure. Because this is a huge accusation, and I want you to be sure that you’re making it for the right reasons.”

Will doesn’t answer her. He’s still confused about everything. It feels like he has been bombarded with way too much information at once, and he has no idea how to sort through it all. It’s possible that some of the facts are getting tangled up, that he’s projecting his own anger onto the Ripper’s. He swallows hard. 

“I… I don’t know,” he says quietly, and his breath rushes out in a heavy sigh. He wilts, letting his eyes flicker shut again. 

Beverly sighs as well. “You look like a beach ball that someone poked a hole into,” she says.

“I feel like one,” he says.

“Look, I didn’t mean to take the wind out of your sails or anything,” she says. “I just really think you should give yourself a chance to calm down before you start making any big accusations like that. Maybe you’ll be able to think a little clearer.” 

He nods. She’s right, he knows she is. He came into the forensics lab immediately after a fight with Hannibal about this very thing; it’s only natural that those emotions would get tied up with what he read from the corpse. 

Beverly checks the clock again, then swears under her breath. “I need to get going,” she says, opening the car door and climbing out. 

“Hey,” Will says, and she looks back over to him. He meets her gaze and offers another crooked smile. “Thanks for listening to me. Really.”

She smiles back. “Sure, anytime.” And with that, she shuts the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is probably going to wind up being longer than I originally intended, to no one's surprise I'm sure. The next part shouldn't take nearly this long to put out since it's already well planned. Thanks for your patience!


	4. In Which an Unfortunate Compromise is Reached

The weeks seem to pass awfully quickly for Bedelia. It often feels like she has just closed the door behind Hannibal and suddenly, he is right back in her office in the blink of an eye. She can barely remember anything else she does. It’s like her sessions with Hannibal are the only thing she has in her life these days.

She needs a vacation, some time away from him and his intensity.

She’s thinking about possible destinations as she welcomes him back into her office, the week between this appointment and his last frittered away in a single breath. She doesn’t pull herself back into the present until they are both settled and the reality of the matter can no longer be ignored.

“So, Hannibal,” she says, already thinking about the alcohol she will soothe herself with when this is over. “Where do we find ourselves today?”

Hannibal wears a frown, a real one. He looks troubled, much more so than usual. “I fear I have made a mistake,” he says.

Great.

“What sort of mistake?” she asks, dreading the answer and what it will mean for the remainder of this session.

“One that can be remedied, I believe,” he says, frowning down at the floor. “You recall what I told you about my situation in regards to Will Graham last week, yes?”

Bedelia nods. How could she forget?

“I made efforts to bridge the gap between us, for the sake of an honest conversation. It was… less than effective, regrettably.”

Bedelia sighs. “Hannibal,” she says, “I told you that your best course of action would be to isolate yourself from him.”

“I recall,” he says, still not looking at her. “But I found the urge impossible to resist. The thought of leaving our relationship in such shambles was not to my tastes.”

“So you insisted upon contacting him. And he continued to ignore you, I presume?”

“For a time, yes.”

Oh, even better. Bedelia shuts her eyes and takes in a slow, deep breath. “And what do you mean by ‘for a time’, Hannibal?”

Hannibal hesitates, as if even he can tell that he should be ashamed of this. “My first few attempts at talking to him were unsuccessful,” he says delicately. “I tried to phone him and was ignored. I tried to meet up with him at Quantico again, as I did last time, and he swiftly avoided me. So I gave it another attempt.”

Bedelia takes another steadying breath. “And what did this attempt entail?”

“I waited for him by his car,” Hannibal says.

Bedelia actively restrains herself from breaking out her bottle of wine. Frankly, Hannibal looks like he would appreciate a few glasses himself. “Hannibal,” she says, “that was close to the worst possible thing you could have done.” At least he didn’t go to his house.

“I did say I may have made a mistake,” Hannibal says.

“You absolutely made a mistake.”

He pauses again, tapping his fingers against his knee. She lets the pause linger, making it his responsibility to end. Eventually, he does. “How might I rectify my error?”

She purses her lips. “What happened when he found you stalking his car?”

“He was… upset,” Hannibal says, his frown growing deeper. “For a moment, I thought that he might leave his car behind entirely instead of coming to speak to me. So I called him over, hoping that a cordial greeting would open the way for a cordial conversation.” He pauses again, licking his lips. “I was incorrect. That only seemed to upset him further.”

  


_“What the fuck are you doing, Doctor Lecter?” Will snaps, storming over to his car with the fury of a scorned god. Hannibal can’t remember ever having seen him look so angry._

_He swallows and searches in himself for the softest, gentlest voice he can muster. “Waiting for you, Will,” he says. “I was really hoping to have the chance to talk to you.”_

_“About what? Me telling you to fuck off because you almost got me killed? Is that what you wanted to talk about?” Will asks, glowering at him. He’s making full eye contact, so Hannibal can’t miss a single bit of his rage._

_“About our friendship.” Hannibal meets his gaze with what he hopes will be clear regret and fondness._

_“We don’t have a friendship, Doctor Lecter,” Will hisses, stepping forward into Hannibal’s personal space. “You ruined that.”_

 

“What did you think you could achieve by doing this, Hannibal?” Bedelia asks, a sigh in her voice.

“I thought that was quite obvious,” Hannibal huffs. “I thought I might find a way to alleviate his concerns.”

“Were you going to apologize to him?”

  


_“I want to repair it, Will,” Hannibal says, letting Will force him back against the cold metal of the car. “I understand that you feel you cannot trust me, and I want to find a way to earn your trust back.”_

_Will barks out a short laugh. “Last time I trusted you, you induced seizures in me until I could barely understand where I was. You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not eager to repeat that mistake.”_

_Hannibal bites his lip. “I understand,” he says, “but I still want to make this up to you. Any way that I can.”_

_“You can’t!” Will cries. “Get that through your head! You don’t get to say a few platitudes and make what you did go away!”_

_“I have no interest in platitudes, Will. Please, listen to me.” He reaches out and grasps Will’s arm, his heart jumping when he feels Will quivering. “I’m sorry.”_

  


“I did,” Hannibal says, idly rubbing his palm up and down the sleeve of his blazer. “I don’t know that I’ve ever meant an apology as much as I did that one, in that moment.”

That was perhaps more revealing than he meant it to be. Bedelia tries not to think about the heartfelt apologies Hannibal gave her after the incident with his former patient. “And how did he react when you did?”

Hannibal blinks, and Bedelia gets the sense that part of him is somewhere else.

  


_Will yanks his arm away, but not before an instant of hesitation. He’s looking down now. “Get out of here, Hannibal.”_

_Hannibal finds himself at a loss for what to do. His hand still lingers in the air where it had held Will a moment ago. “Will, I—”_

_“I said get out of here, are you deaf?” Will snaps, looking like he might actually shove him. Hannibal takes a slow, reluctant step away from Will’s car._

_“Will, please, you must believe me when I say that I want nothing more than to fix this,” Hannibal says quickly, his words starting to tangle up in their rush out of his mouth. Will unlocks the door and reaches past Hannibal to open it, forcing him a bit further away. “Your friendship has meant more to me than I ever could have anticipated. I need you to listen to me. I need you to give me the chance to make this right.”_

_“You don’t get to need anything from me,” Will says scathingly, shooting Hannibal one last glare before he gets into the car. Hannibal is about to choke out one last beg, but Will beats him to the punch. “And by the way: thanks for Sutcliffe.”_

_Hannibal watches in stunned silence as the door slams shut and the car pulls away._

  


“He was… He was not willing to accept my apology,” Hannibal says in a surprisingly soft voice. “I could not have been any more sincere or heartfelt, and still he rejected it.”

Bedelia watches his face curiously. “No matter how… sincere and heartfelt an apology might be, it doesn’t entitle you to forgiveness.”

Hannibal doesn’t answer. On some level, he knew that, and he also knew that expecting forgiveness from Will might be unrealistic. But he had hoped.

Bedelia isn’t sure whether or not she’s surprised by the sight of tears welling up in Hannibal’s eyes. He sighs and blinks them away, looking towards the window. She has never had to offer him tissues during their sessions, so the box is far out of reach. “Hannibal, if you were so concerned with rebuilding this friendship, why did you not listen to my advice?”

“Because problems are not solved by ignoring them and hoping they resolve themselves,” he says.

“You trapped him. You forced him into a situation he was not ready to handle, and have almost certainly pushed him away even further.”

Hannibal again goes quiet. He doesn’t look back towards her, but she can hear the restrained tears in the slight choke of his voice. “I need to know how I can rectify this situation.”

Bedelia thinks. She told him last time that it might be beyond help, and it sounds like the issue has only gotten worse now. “Hannibal,” she says carefully, “it’s very possible that there is no solution.”

Last time she told him that, he refused to accept the answer, insisting she give him one anyway. This time, he merely tenses in his chair.

“You needed to give him space, and you forced yourself upon him until he had no choice but to confront you when he was not ready to.” Bedelia lets the encounter play through her head, imagining Hannibal standing beside a car that doesn’t belong to him and getting yelled at by its owner. It’s hard to picture; she struggles to imagine him in any situation in which he doesn’t have the upper hand. “I’m not… convinced that the issue was going to resolve even before this, but now... Now, I would say that your best course of action is to accept that your relationship has ended.”

Hannibal winces. He slowly turns away from the window and back to her, moving like a rusted door hinge. “I understand that it would seem that way,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically frail. “I understand that I should not have done what I did.”

“That’s correct.”

“There is one detail I neglected to mention,” he says, giving no acknowledgement to what she said. “He was… dismissive, and… furious, that’s unquestionable.”

“As he had the right to be,” Bedelia says. Hannibal again ignores her.

“But he thanked me.”

Bedelia blinks. That certainly was a detail he neglected. “He thanked you?” she asks, wondering if she had misheard somehow. Hannibal nods. “What did he thank you for?”

Hannibal licks his lips, his gaze flicking away from her for a moment. He seems to be choosing his words carefully. “I had… left him a… a gift,” he says. “A week ago. I prepared it after our session.”

Well, good to know that her advice had sunken in. She sighs yet again and wonders why she bothers. “What was this gift?”

“It was rather personal in nature. I would prefer to keep it private,” he says. A few horrible ideas about what it might be flash through Bedelia’s mind, and she banishes them as quickly as she can.

“Fine,” she says, trying very hard not to let any concern filter into her voice. If it were any other client, she would assume it was something sexual, but that doesn’t… seem likely here. “So he thanked you for the gift?”

Hannibal nods. “But it wasn’t just a gift,” he adds before Bedelia can tell him Will was probably just being polite. “It was… it was an apology. Very carefully planned to communicate my remorse to him, in a way I know he could understand. And he understood it, of that I am certain.”

“So you feel that because he acknowledged this… apology, he may be more receptive to forgiveness than I’m suggesting?”

“Precisely,” Hannibal says, nodding again. “I understand that it may seem like he has no interest in forgiveness. But surely he would not have thanked me for my gift if he saw no value in it.” He looks to her again, and it almost seems like he is hoping for validation, like he doesn’t quite believe himself.

Bedelia shuts her eyes and sighs slowly, trying to relax her tense muscles. “It’s… difficult to say something like that with certainty. Only he knows for sure what his intentions are, and I am no authority on his thoughts. I’ve never met him.” Sometimes, however, it feels like she must know Will Graham better than anyone else who actually has met him. Hannibal certainly has had much to say. “But is it not possible that he was simply acknowledging that he received it?”

Hannibal stills. Perhaps he hadn’t considered that. Perhaps he had and dismissed the idea offhand. “I don’t… believe that was the intention, no,” he says, again sounding not quite convinced.

“You would know better than I,” Bedelia says dismissively. She doesn’t want to argue this point. “That’s not important, Hannibal. Whether he will forgive you or not is a matter outside of your control. And if you attempt to contact him like that again, I would say that you should give up on the idea entirely.”

“So I truly have done all I can do,” he says gingerly.

“You have done more than you should have,” Bedelia reminds him. “And now you need to stop.”

Hannibal looks back out the window.

Bedelia considers trying to offer him tissues, but the idea feels too ridiculous to humour. “Are you upset, Hannibal?” she asks.

“I am… worried. Worried that I have lost something precious,” he says.

“Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

Hannibal looks back to her, confused. “What suggestion might that be?”

“About you being infatuated with Will Graham.”

Hannibal all but rolls his eyes and scoffs, turning back to the window and shaking his head. “Ridiculous,” he says.

“You just called your friendship with him ‘something precious’, Hannibal.”

He shakes his head again.

“Hannibal, you will have a much harder time coming to terms with this entire ordeal if you refuse to examine your feelings towards him,” she practically scolds. “It seems quite likely to me that your feelings for Will Graham go beyond friendship—”

“They do,” Hannibal cuts her off. She quiets, surprised by the admission. “They do go beyond friendship. I never meant to imply otherwise,” he continues. “But they are not feelings of infatuation.”

“Then what are they feelings of?”

Hannibal blinks. “Fondness. Curiosity. I enjoy his company and find myself ever fascinated by his thoughts and actions. I think of him more warmly than I do other people I consider friends, but by no means do I think I am infatuated.”

That sounds about as good as it’ll get. Bedelia isn’t convinced, but it’s just not worth fighting him over this. “You must acknowledge that your actions aren’t that of a typical friend.”

Hannibal nods. “I do,” he says, “and I don’t consider Will a typical friend. My actions felt appropriate at the time.” He licks his lips. “I just could not abide by the idea of doing nothing and letting our relationship fall apart.”

“Do you understand that all you can do now is let it be?” she asks.

Hannibal hesitates before nodding, and the action looks near painful for him. “I will let it be,” he says.

And Bedelia believes him.

 

~

 

_Are you two still fighting?_

Will sighs through his nose as he reads the text. He would tell anyone else that it’s not their business whether or not he and Hannibal are on speaking terms. But Abigail… Abigail deserves to know what’s going on.

_Yes._

He considers adding more. That they aren’t just fighting; that he has done everything in his power to sever the relationship completely, and that it seems Hannibal has finally started to take that to heart. But he doesn’t.

_I figured. He’s been really mopey. But he won’t admit it, he just says he has no idea what I’m talking about when I point it out to him._

Sounds about right.

_I’d rather not talk about him, Abigail. I’m sorry._

Which is definitely true. Talking about him is upsetting. It’s not for the reasons he would’ve expected, though. The thought of Hannibal doesn’t make him angry, like it should. It mostly just makes him feel... hollow.

_That’s okay. I get it._

Will isn’t sure what to say in response. He worries his lip between his teeth and frowns down at the carpeted floor of Jack’s office. He had been called in to talk about something, but Jack hasn’t shown up yet. It’s hard not to feel like a little kid waiting in the principal’s office.

_Thanks._

That’s probably good enough.

He looks up from his phone at the sound of Jack bustling in through the door, sounding out of breath.

“Sorry,” he says as he takes off his coat and hat, “I was held up on the way in.”

“That’s fine,” Will says idly. He didn’t have anywhere else to be.

“Good, it’s very important that you were able to be here. We have something to talk about,” Jack says, sitting down behind his desk. He quickly assumes the bravado of a man who didn’t just rush in, late, to the meeting he set up. “It’s about the Hobbs case.”

That has Will’s attention.

“What about it?” he asks, frowning. “We don’t have any new leads on the Copycat, you would’ve told me about those. Hell, they would’ve been MY leads.”

“Yes,” Jack says, “probably.”

“Definitely,” Will says, “I’m the one working hardest on that case.”

“This isn’t about a new lead,” Jack says firmly, rerouting the conversation to where he needs it. He leans forward in his seat, fixing Will with an intense look that he dutifully avoids. “It’s about Nick Boyle. Cassie Boyle’s brother.”

“N… Nick Boyle?” Will asks, his frown growing deeper. “What about him?”

“We found his body,” Jack says. “Gutted, pretty brutally.”

Will blinks. “But… he was seen after I…”

“Gunned Garret Jacob Hobbs down, yes,” Jack says with a nod, ignoring Will’s little flinch. He appears to be leading him somewhere, although Will isn’t quite catching where.

“Do we… do we have any suspects?” Will asks, looking down at the carpet again as he thinks.

“There is strong reason to believe that Abigail Hobbs is responsible. DNA evidence left on the body.” Jack says. Will stiffens, and there’s no way that Jack didn’t see it this time. “Which means,” he continues, his voice remaining firm, “that she will be held in suspicion for the rest of the murders committed by Garret Jacob Hobbs, as an accomplice.”

For a second, Will can’t say anything. He shakes his head. “Jack, come on,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. “You can’t actually believe that. She wouldn’t.”

“Will, you know as well as I do that a person seeming innocent doesn’t make them incapable of doing horrible things.”

Will isn’t sure if that was an intentional dig at his situation with Hannibal. But the intention doesn’t matter, it still hits him hard. He shakes it off as quickly as he can. “She wouldn’t do that, Jack,” he repeats. “She’s not a killer. I would know, I think about killers all day, I KNOW them when I see them!” His voice is getting a little out of his control, and he stops himself short to regather himself. “What about self defence? How do we know that he didn’t attack her first?”

Jack sighs. “There was already reason to believe that she was party to the Shrike murders. Whether this was self defence or not, it further cements the case against her.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Will cries. He can’t remember the last time he raised his voice at Jack without Jack doing it first. “It’s a valid legal defence!”

“And also incredibly difficult to prove without any witnesses,” Jack reminds him. “The jury would have to take her at her word, and there is enough evidence against her to make that difficult to do. And that’s not even mentioning the level of brutality!” He leans forward a little further, trying to catch Will’s gaze. “Will, I’m sorry, but at this point we have to believe that she was almost certainly an accomplice to Garret Jacob Hobbs.”

Will shakes his head hard, getting to his feet. “You can’t do this to her, Jack,” he says urgently. “She has been through more than enough already!”

“You’re misplacing your sympathies, Will,” Jack says, standing as well. He comes around to Will’s side of the desk. “She has you wrapped around her little finger.”

“That’s not true! I know it’s not! I have spent enough time around her to know that she wouldn’t do something like that, that she’s not that kind of a person!”

Jack sighs again and just looks at Will for a moment. Will’s heart is racing in his chest. “Whether you’re willing to see it or not, it’s the situation she’s in.”

Will glares down at the floor. “This is… this is ridiculous,” he spits.

“It’s the situation she’s in. If you’re going to be mad at someone, be mad at her for doing this.” Jack tries to give him a sympathetic look, but Will won’t look at him. So instead, he just sighs again and pats Will’s arm. He recoils away from the touch. “I’ve got to go. We’re still looking into the Sutcliffe case, if you feel up to providing any further insight.”

Will scoffs. “I already gave my insight,” he says bitterly. “It hasn’t changed.”

Jack looks at him for a moment, then nods. “Let me know if you come up with anything,” he says, and then he leaves.

Will stays standing in his office, his arms loosely hugged around himself as he stares at the floor. His heart is pounding and his head feels like it’s rattling with all the thoughts chasing each other around it. He needs to figure something out, and he needs to figure something out quickly.

His phone buzzes, making him jump. He pulls it out to see another text from Abigail.

_Just so you know, it’s okay. It doesn’t upset me that you’re fighting. Alana told me you might be worried about how I’m taking it so I thought I’d let you know that it’s fine._

Alana, of course. Will doesn’t respond to the message; there will be time for that later. For now, he has to phone Alana.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hello, Will,” she says gently. She sounds almost… ready to pacify?

“Jack is back on the idea that Abigail was an accomplice. Nick Boyle’s body turned up gutted, and he thinks she did it,” Will says, wasting no time.

Alana takes a breath. “Oh,” she says, “I wasn’t… I didn’t think that’s what you would say. I’m a little caught off guard.”

“What are you talking about? What did you think I would be calling about?” Will asks, starting to pace back and forth across Jack’s office. He probably shouldn’t stay here, but if Jack is off handling a case, then it serves as a conveniently empty room for now.

“I thought you might want to talk about Hannibal.”

Will stops walking. “I don’t want to talk about that, Alana,” he says tensely.

“I know, I know, you’ve made that very clear,” she says with a sigh.

“Then why would you think that’s what I wanted to talk about?!”

“I was hoping you had changed your mind,” she admits.

“God, Alana, forget that,” he says, pressing his hand to his forehead. “This is important; it’s about Abigail’s safety.”

“You said that she’s a suspect again?” Alana asks, shifting tracks swiftly, to Will’s immense relief.

“She was probably always a suspect,” Will says bitterly. “But she’s back to being a big one. She’s going to be brought in for questioning, and who knows what’ll happen to her from there?”

“It would definitely be… hard on her,” Alana says. She sounds angry, furious even. But she restrains it, forcing on a calm tone of voice. “I’ll talk to him about it and see if he’ll listen to me. Maybe more voices will get through.” She pauses again, and Will can hear her taking a calming breath. “But if that doesn’t work, it will still be alright in the end, won’t it? We know she was acting in self defence if she was genuinely responsible, and surely that would come across in court.”

“It doesn’t always work like that,” Will says, back to pacing. “Jack seemed pretty convinced that no jury would side with her because of how the body looks.”

“Then maybe we should be focusing on helping her get ready to perform well in questioning,” Alana says. “Look, Will, I believe she’s innocent just as much as you do. And I really think that will come across to anyone that talks to her. Jack hasn’t spent a lot of time with her like we have, so it’s reasonable that he would be more wary.”

“She shouldn’t have to put up with this at all!”

“I know, I know. She shouldn’t. And I’m going to try to make it so she doesn’t have to.” Alana says gently. “But that’s why she has guardians, right? To help her through a difficult situation like this.”

Will sighs shakily. Guardians, plural. Only one direction this could be going. “Alana, please.”

“You need to be talking to Hannibal about this,” she says. “I know that you’re… still on bad terms, but I think it would be best for you to set that aside for now. For Abigail.”

Will breathes through clenched teeth. “And would that be best for her, or best for him?” he asks tensely.

“Will…” Alana says delicately, “you’re holding onto your anger. I afforded you some understanding at first, because someone to blame seemed to be what you needed. But it has come to the point that this anger is no longer helping you. It’s hurting you, it’s hurting Hannibal, and it’s going to hurt Abigail if you let it.”

Will rubs his eyes hard, noticing for the first time that he had left his glasses in his car. “Thanks, Alana,” he says, and he hangs up before she can get in anything further. It was rude, and he feels a sting of guilt at doing that to her. But he needs to think about what she said, on his own.

Because as loath as he is to admit it, aloud or to himself, she might just be right.

Not about his anger being misplaced, no. Hannibal deserves every ounce of rage that can be levelled at him.

Will stuffs his phone back into his pocket and looks around the room. Exactly the same as when he walked in. He can’t say he expected any different.

Hannibal deserves every ounce of rage that can be levelled at him, and possibly far more than that. Possibly.

Will rubs his eyes again and finally steps out into the hallway. He has somewhere to be, although he hasn’t exactly admitted to himself where that place is yet.

It’s possible that Hannibal deserves far more rage than Will could ever offer up. Sutcliffe’s ruined face told him so. But Beverly reminded him that the ruined face of a corpse can only say so much.

He stops to gather up his things before he heads out. His car keys sit heavy in his jacket pocket, and he runs his fingertips over their jagged edges. He will not be driving to his home.

The ruined face of a corpse can only say so much, and all Sutcliffe’s told him was that it’s possible. Perhaps that should be enough to avoid him entirely. In any other situation, it may have been.

Will’s thoughts are barely present as he flops heavily into the driver’s seat of his car. He won’t need more awareness than that; he knows this trip very well.

Alana was not right to suggest that his anger is misplaced. But this might just be a situation where that anger hurts Abigail. And this might just be a situation where Will needs to swallow it down for her sake.

After all, it’s only possible that Hannibal is as terrible as Will thinks he could be. But it’s certain that he is terrible enough to help her.

 

~

 

Hannibal would not normally have noticed the flash of headlights as the car pulled into his driveway. His kitchen does not look out in that direction, and even if it did, he would be well absorbed in his cooking and paying no attention to the outdoors.

This evening, however, he had been nursing his third glass of wine in his sitting room, trying and failing to read. He was perfectly positioned to see the light spill through his window, and it took no more than a glance to identify the car.

He was on his feet in an instant, and now rushes to put together a simple cheese plate in the time it takes his unexpected guest to reach the front door. A doomed task, for certain; he has only sliced up a few bites of camembert before the knock puts his heart directly into his throat.

This excitement is unjustified, he tells himself, quickly combing his fingers through his hair and smoothing out the creases in his sweater. Bedelia made it quite clear that all Hannibal can expect from something like this is further disappointment. And yet, and yet. Another knock rattles through the air, telling Hannibal that he has stalled to preen for long enough. He takes one more swipe at tidying his hair and corrects his posture before finally opening the door.

Will stands dishevelled and soaked; it must have started raining at some point between when Hannibal left his practice and now. He looks irritated, and Hannibal imagines him shaking the water from his sodden hair like a dog.

“The hell took you so long?” he asks gruffly.

“Will,” Hannibal says, because it’s the only word that will reach his lips. He swallows down a strange lump in his throat and adds, “It’s very good to see you. Please, come in.”

He steps aside, and Will hurries indoors. He kicks his shoes off with little care given to splattering water, and Hannibal barely registers his own irritation.

“I was just sitting down to some wine and cheese. Might I tempt you to join?” he offers, not mentioning that he is already a few glasses deep.

Will doesn’t look at him, too busy shedding his wet jacket. Hannibal holds out a hand to take it before he can toss it somewhere haphazardly; thankfully, Will obliges. “You know what, sure,” he says, “I could use a drink.”

“Perhaps something warm? I could prepare something to help you fight off the chill.” It has been far too long since Hannibal last cooked for Will.

To Hannibal’s immense satisfaction, Will looks tempted. He shakes his head anyway, his wet curls clinging to his forehead. “I ate on the way here,” he says, although he doesn’t need to. Hannibal could smell the fast food on him all too clearly.

“Just the wine, then,” Hannibal says, and he leads Will to the sitting room after a beat. He busies himself with retrieving a second glass while Will mills about the room, making himself comfortable in the space. By the time Hannibal has poured out two fresh drinks, Will has settled himself in a chair.

Will doesn’t thank him when he takes the glass, and Hannibal doesn’t prompt him to. The silence is not one he wants to break. As long as it’s quiet between them, Hannibal can imagine that this is a pleasant visit. He sips his wine and enjoys the knowledge that Will is right here, with him again.

But Will is here with a purpose. “I don’t forgive you,” he says suddenly. Hannibal lets out a slow breath.

“I will admit that I hoped you had,” he says softly.

“I know.”

Hannibal has no response. He sighs again and sips his wine.

“That’s not what I’m here about.”

Hannibal looks over at him. Will’s eyes are decidedly cast on his glass, watching the play of light against wine. “Then to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks.

“Abigail is about to be arrested,” Will says shortly.

Hannibal purses his lips. “I see,” he says.

Will shuts his eyes. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I suppose not.”

Will nods slowly. “Nick Boyle was murdered. Brutal stab wound to the abdomen. They think she did it.”

“That’s correct.”

“That’s correct? What the hell does that mean?” Will asks, even though he already knows.

“She did.”

Will takes a much longer sip of his wine. “And how do you know that, Doctor Lecter?”

Hannibal delicately swirls his glass, idly watching the legs as they run down the sides. The low light of his sitting room catch off their tracks in fascinating ways. “Because I helped her hide the body,” he says calmly, as if it were as innocent as any household chore.

“Not well enough,” Will hisses, squeezing his eyes shut. “They found it, and now she’s doomed.”

Hannibal looks from his wine to his guest. “And what did you intend to do about this problem, Will?” he asks.

Will laughs once, a bitter and clipped sound. Hannibal has heard it far too many times as of late. “I don’t forgive you,” he says, finally meeting Hannibal’s gaze. “What you did to me was beyond fucked up. I still don’t understand why. I’m not even convinced you know why yourself.” He swallows hard, and Hannibal feels oddly compelled to do the same.

“Sometimes,” Hannibal says carefully, “plans that seemed reasonable once may come to be regrettable with time.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Will says. “I don’t forgive you. But… I don’t… need to.” He rubs his eyes with one hand, then takes another sip of his wine. “I don’t know what the hell happened, or why. I don’t… I don’t know exactly what you’re capable of.” He takes a steadying breath, looking down into his own glass. He starts to swirl it as Hannibal had, and then stops himself. He looks back in Hannibal’s direction. “But I know you’re willing to do fucked up things, and I think that’s what I need.”

Hannibal leans back in his chair, his brows lifting. “What you need,” Hannibal repeats, turning the words over in his mouth and his mind. They taste wonderful.

“What Abigail needs,” Will amends quickly.

Hannibal nods pensively, watching Will’s face. He is avoiding eye contact, but still looking in Hannibal’s direction; if he had to guess, he would place Will’s gaze at his collarbone. “Might I ask what favour you had in mind, Will?” he asks, licking his lips.

“Jesus Christ, I don’t know,” Will asks, shaking his head hard. “I don’t have a plan. I came here as soon as I heard about this; I haven’t had the chance to think.”

Hannibal smiles. “I’m flattered that you thought of me in a time of such crisis.” He is growing more comfortable and confident by the second, even as Will flashes a glare at him.

“This is about Abigail. It’s not a joke,” Will snaps.

“And I am not joking,” Hannibal replies. “I am just as concerned for her wellbeing as you are, Will. But I’m afraid that I don’t have a plan readymade for this situation.”

Will looks at him like he doesn’t quite believe that. Hannibal carefully keeps his pleased smirk to himself.

“Then help me come up with one, Doctor Lecter,” Will says, his voice low and firm. He leans forward in his chair and grips his glass in both hands. “We need to keep her safe, and that means we can’t let Jack have her.”

Hannibal nods, donning a thoughtful look. He already has a plan, of course. But oh, how beautiful it would be to hear Will craft it.

“It sounds to me that you wish to conceal her,” Hannibal offers helpfully.

“Yeah,” Will says, chewing his lip as he thinks. “You can… you can hide her, can’t you? You have the… resources for that sort of thing?”

“I can,” Hannibal says. “Truthfully, I have already offered her a place in my home. She was hesitant to accept, but perhaps she will reconsider.”

“She can’t just stay in your home; it’ll be searched,” Will says, shaking his head. “Do you have anywhere else? Like… a vacation home or something?”

Hannibal smiles. “I do have a vacation home that would do the job. I have kept it quite private; in fact, you are the first person I have told of its existence.” He considers inviting Will for a meal there, but that may be too far. Hannibal is enjoying himself immensely, but this is not a pleasurable visit for Will.

Will frowns at him. “Why do you have a top secret vacation home, Doctor Lecter?” he asks, a subtle edge of suspicion creeping into his tone. It’s fortunate that Hannibal has no need to conceal his unsavoury nature; it seems unlikely that Will would turn him in now. Not when he is set to help shelter Abigail.

“A private place that can be escaped to at any time with no risk of being followed is an invaluable asset, Will,” Hannibal says, pausing to take a sip of his wine. “Surely, you understand the appeal of having a space of your own.”

“I get the feeling that we aren’t talking about quite the same thing,” Will says cooly.

“I would suspect that we are.”

Will shakes his head again. “Fine, that sounds… that sounds perfect,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a flop.

“Won’t there be searches put out for her if she disappears suddenly?” Hannibal prompts. They have not yet reached the important part of this plan.

Will groans and rubs his eyes hard. “Yeah, there will. Big ones. We need to get the attention off of her.”

Hannibal waits and watches as the gears turn in Will’s head. He will reach this conclusion on his own; no need to prod him.

“Doctor Lecter,” Will asks slowly. The words seem almost painful to him. “Would you… know how to… fake someone’s death?”

Exactly what Hannibal was hoping to hear.

“I believe that is manageable,” he says, keeping his voice level. “It will take some… finessing. But I’m sure that we can manage it.” He finishes his glass at the same time that Will finishes his. “For Abigail,” Hannibal adds, pouring each of them a fresh glass.

Will watches the wine fill his glass, then shakes his head and gets to his feet. “I need to go,” he says, dragging a hand through his still damp hair.

Hannibal pauses. “Already? You only just arrived.”

Will shakes his head. “I need to drive. Can’t drink anymore. Also I’d rather not stay here any longer.”

Hannibal blinks, then sets the bottle back down ruefully. “If you’re certain,” he says, getting to his feet and righting his clothes.

“Very,” Will says, leading the way to the foyer. He pulls his coat back on, grimacing at the feeling of the wet, heavy fabric on his shoulders. “Thanks. For the wine, I mean. And the… and the help.”

Hannibal nods, restraining himself from offering anything further. “Always a pleasure.”

Will opens the door, but before he can step back out into the rain, a hand on his shoulder stops him. He yanks away from it, turning around to tell Hannibal off.

“Will, a moment. Please,” Hannibal says before Will can say a word. “I have already said this to you, but it was at an inopportune time.” He takes the smallest of steps forward, but stops the advance when Will moves just as far backward. “I’m sorry. I regret what was done to you. What I… what I did to you. It was a mistake.”

Will blinks, looks him up and down, hesitates. “I heard you the first time,” he says, his gaze settling on the ground. Hannibal can tell that his heart is racing; he can smell the sheen of sweat gathering on his skin. Will swallows hard. “I… heard you the first time.” He hurries back into the rain without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I greatly appreciate the patience of everyone following this fic; I've had a far busier month than I expected to (I moved twice in one week, for example) and it kept me from working on things. As always, thank you for reading!! This is always a lot of fun to work on, even if I haven't gotten to do so as much as I would like.


End file.
